


Stars and Stripes Forever

by yelp



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Anal Plug, Bondage, Branding, Breathplay, Captivity, Choking, Dark Tony Stark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, F/M, Fucking Machines, Humiliation, M/M, No Morals, No Plot, Objectification, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Robot Sex, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut, Strap-Ons, Tech-tacles?, Tentacles, Unconscious Sex, Whipping, Whump, no redeeming value, okay i lied (there's a little plot), shock collar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26756215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yelp/pseuds/yelp
Summary: Steve wakes in a very different 21st century. One where he's owned by the man who fished him out of the sea.Updates Mondays and Thursdays.
Relationships: Loki/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Avengers Team, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 51
Kudos: 235
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the tags. This story contains explicit rape, and very little else, to be honest.

Steve woke on his knees. 

His first bleary impression of the world was white and sterile and... _noisy_. A steady, regular beep pulsed somewhere near his head, and made him repeatedly wince. A number of bodies bustled around him—nurses?—some calling loudly, others pushing carts or carrying trays loaded with clattering metal instruments. 

And, underneath it all, something else. 

Someone else. 

An amused hum, low and masculine, tingled across Steve's scalp, and sank right into his brain—like someone was pressed up behind him, chuckling, raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck. The presence drifted around the curve of his skull, and turned into a silky whisper, directly into the shell of his ear: "You really were better off asleep."

Steve jerked away from it with a cry, and turned to look—there was no one there, no one at all, but the nurses were taking notice. 

He tried to get up, but his cramped limbs caught on... something. His chest and chin rested against a padded surface, slanted, like he'd crawled over a half-reclined hospital bed, and been bound to it. His knees were spread uncomfortably wide, and held in place at the thigh and ankle. Leather cuffs, it felt like, biting directly into his skin. 

He was naked. 

He was naked all over. 

The beeping picked up in pace, an echo to his own rising alarm as he struggled fruitlessly against his restraints. He tried to reach down to unfasten the cuffs, or to cover his bare ass—there were _ladies_ around! A part of him was still out of it enough to be shocked by the idea—but his arms were bound behind his back, pressed elbow to elbow, so tightly that his shoulders arched backwards to accommodate. His hands were clenched into fists and wrapped in something sweaty and unforgiving, so that he couldn't even wiggle a finger. 

In fact, there was barely a muscle on him that he could so much as twitch. 

The heart monitor was going a mile a minute now, and a couple nurses were coming over to investigate.

That was bad. 

Where was he? How had he gotten into this position? And what had been that voice?

The last thing he remembered was going down with that plane, the vast ocean looming before him, filling his view. Then the wet, the ice, the bitter, all-consuming cold—

He tried to sit up, and couldn't, with his arms bound behind him. He tried to shuffle his legs, and couldn't. 

One of the nurses took hold of some wires that he hadn't noticed before, and yanked. They came away from his wrist and throat with a sharp sting, and the beeping cut off mid-tone. 

She smiled. 

And that's when Steve really started to panic. 

As he began to writhe in his restraints, heedless of the leather digging into his flesh, she touched her ear and murmured something. 

The doors at the far end of the room opened, and the man who entered drew the attention of all the other occupants, Steve included. 

He wasn't a particularly large man, but he had the air of someone used to commanding attention, obedience. He was dressed in a simple business suit and sunglasses, with a neat goatee on his chin, and an eager smile on his lips. 

All in all, he looked strangely familiar.

"How long were you gonna wait before you told me he was up?"

Even his voice was familiar. 

"He just woke up, Mr. Stark," replied the nurse.

Stark? Steve stopped struggling, as the man pulled off his sunglasses. 

It couldn't be. 

But here he was, the spitting image of Howard Stark. 

Younger, though. His son? 

Just how many years had Steve spent under the ice?

"Well," said Stark, junior, accepting a pair of latex gloves from another nurse. "Let's see what the damage is." 

The sharp snap of them sliding on made Steve flinch out of his thoughts. "Where am I?" he said. "What's going on here? The plane—"

"Shush shush shush," said Stark, circling around behind Steve, disappearing from view. "Too demanding, for a slave. Someone find me a nice, thick gag."

 _"Slave?"_ Steve choked, as the padded surface under him started to lower, with a whirring sound. His head went down, even as his rear went humiliatingly upward. Stark, standing behind him, would have a perfect view of his naked ass, and his cock and balls dangling between his legs. As if that weren't enough, rough, latexed fingers grasped his cheeks and spread them unceremoniously apart. 

"Stop!" Steve shouted. "What are you—" the rest of it was muffled as the first nurse pressed something into his mouth. He caught a glimpse of something red and ball-shaped before it tucked under his teeth, spreading his jaw painfully wide. Drool instantly formed at the corners of his lips, and he squirmed, but had no way to wipe it.

"Next time, have them gagged to start with," Stark said, all exasperation, as she buckled it behind Steve's head, pinching his hair.

"Sorry, Mr. Stark," said the nurse, "It's not safe to keep them gagged too long—"

"When they wake up, then," Stark sighed. Something else shifted below, and Steve's knees were drawn closer together, giving Stark better access to his entrance. "I don't need to hear what my new fucktoy thinks." 

Steve flinched, as much from the words as from the sudden sensation of something wet and cold trickling between his ass cheeks. 

"Potential fucktoy," Stark amended. "Don't get ahead of yourself, soldier boy."

From his new position, head down, Steve had a much reduced field of view, but he did see the cart that went by, and caught a glimpse of an array of brightly-colored plastics, varying in size. They were cylindrical and looked like toys, some curved, some with ridges. The smallest was about the width of a man's finger; the largest an obscene girth he would have struggled to wrap two hands around. 

Given the size range, he wouldn't have imagined that they could possibly be for... for what it looked like. 

But there came the squelch of more liquid squeezed out of a bottle, a steady press against his entrance, and then something was pushing into him, warm and probing. Pinned and spread like a butterfly on display, he was powerless to fight it. He tried to push back against it, to squeeze himself shut, but the sick slick of the lubricant prevented even that resistance, and the thing slipped right in, like he was made for it. 

The material was rigid, and unforgiving. It felt huge and foreign in his ass, but then Stark said, "Would you look at that. The tiniest one, and he's already struggling," and Steve choked into his gag. "What a tight little ass. I'm going to have a good time breaking it in."

It hurt on the way out. 

His ass had eagerly sucked the toy inwards, and seemed reluctant to give it up. It took a steady pull on Stark's part, a burning, friction-laden drag, before it was released with an obscene pop. There came the clatter of something dropped on a tray, and then another squelch of that damned bottle. Steve imagined that Stark was lubing up the next one, a size up, and snarled, "Don't you dare put that thing in me!" Or tried to. No one heard it but the gag, and soon enough, his next torment was making its way in.

Either he'd forgotten the impossible size of the first one, or this one was much, much larger. He was sobbing into the gag now, his shoulders aching from how desperately he was trying to get free, to get just one arm loose so he could defend himself. The bonds didn't allow him to move so much as an inch. 

"It's not going to work, stop it," he muffled against the ball in his mouth, producing less sound than drool. But Stark was relentless, and Steve had the feeling he would break before the intrusion did. Eventually it must have sunk in as far as it would go, because there came a condescending pat on one of his cheeks, and the sense of Stark stepping back for a moment, leaving it in him. What, was he having a cigarette break? 

Groaning, Steve clenched around the intrusion, and felt it shift inside him. He had never felt so... _full_ back there. He hadn't known that was a thing he could feel. His skin was covered in sweat, making his restraints slippery, soaking into the padded surface beneath him. A bead of sweat ran down his chest, tickling a line between his pecs, and he couldn't even move to wipe it off. 

A nurse came by to towel his forehead, which only made him heat up more. All these women were watching him and Stark, watching him be violated by a piece of plastic and a squirt of oil, all while he knelt there, helpless as a trussed-up pig with an apple in its mouth. 

Too soon, Stark touched the thing inside of him, making him jerk and grunt. It was pulled out slightly, and then sank back in. Out and then in again, changing angles with each stroke, until abruptly it brushed something inside him that made him jump within the limits of his bonds. 

"Oh, responsive," Stark hummed, and stroked that spot again. 

It was like there was a button in there, wired directly to Steve's nervous system. Every time Stark hit it, Steve's entire body flailed without his input. He'd never felt anything like it, like touching a raw wire, electrifying and blinding and strangely pleasurable. On the next thrust, Stark stopped just short of hitting it, and Steve mindlessly surged back against the toy to do it to himself, and keened at the sensation. 

Soon he was sobbing again, but it was to an altered tune, an entirely different sort of desperation and want. A new urgency was building within him, terrifying and shameful. He couldn't see a way to get out of these restraints, but he had to get away from that invasive touch. He couldn't let it... make him... well, he just _couldn't_. 

He tried to move forwards, away from the intrusion, but only rubbed himself against the bed, and that was how he discovered he was decidedly, impossibly, _achingly_ erect.

"Look at that, zero to full mast. Like a freaking race car." 

Steve tried to hold himself back from the bed, but then that _thing_ moved within him, and he couldn't help but snap his hips against it. The friction felt so, so good.

"Guess that time on ice didn't mess him up too bad. Let's see how fast this engine goes." And Stark began fucking him in earnest. 

Steve had thought earlier was torture, but now there was hardly room for coherent thought. There was no longer even discomfort; the oil had heated to a delicious, sticky warmth, and he had no escape from the assault, whether the toy relentlessly filling him from behind, or the way his bucking motions rubbed his cock against the too-soft padding of the bed in front. Not enough friction, not enough pressure. He realized he was moaning wantonly, drooling around the gag, but he couldn't find it within himself to care. He just needed a little more—

Peggy's face came to him abruptly, and he let out another humiliated sob. 

In his most furtive fantasies, he had thought his first time might be with her, something innocent and loving and romantic. Instead, here he was, losing his virginity to a piece of plastic, in a room full of witnesses—ladies, strangers, and Howard Stark's son, whose first name he didn't even know, playing his ass like a fiddle. 

With a choked cry, he finally gave in to the orgasm, and felt Stark's hands close over his neck at the same time, so that when it tore through him, and destroyed him, it was to the sensation of Stark's possessive hands locked around his throat. 

As the world slowly filtered back into focus, he became aware that Stark had moved to stand in front of him now. There was a gleeful look on his face, the same exact look that his father had when he made a new breakthrough. 

He was holding a curved metal band in his hands, which he wrapped around Steve's throat. Steve weakly tossed his head against it, but even if he hadn't been tightly strapped down, there was no fight left in his limp, aching form. 

The click behind his head felt ominously final. When he swallowed, he felt the cold metal against his Adam's apple: not choking him, but impossible to ignore. 

It felt like Stark's hand, constantly wrapped around his throat. 

"Lucky thing," said Stark, but not to Steve. "I thought he was going to be a wreck, if we ever found him. If I hadn't liked the looks of him, I was going to have him pay off his debt as a lab rat, down in R&D. But with that performance, I'd say he's worth keeping."

Debt, thought Steve distantly. 

He couldn't have said it out loud, because he was gagged—but then he realized he'd lost some time, and the gag was gone. He was freely drooling down his chin now. 

"That's right," said Stark, "we spent a lot of cash fishing you out of the depths. You're welcome, by the way. You can start your repayment by giving me a proper thank you. For your life."

Before Steve could properly process what he was being told, Stark had grasped him by the chin, and pried his mouth open. Stark's cock was hot and musky, heavy on Steve's tongue. His jaw still ached from the gag, and Stark wasn't gentle with him, thrusting all the way in, until Steve choked on it, and then some. 

It was all too fast for him to do more than inexpertly bob around it, but Stark didn't seem to expect much active participation out of him, just grabbed him by his new collar and the back of his head, and proceeded to thoroughly use his mouth and throat, like he owned it. Steve gasped, he choked, tears came to his eyes, but Stark ignored it all with a shocking callousness. 

Just fucked the breath right out of him, with every sign of pleasure, until he came. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just testing out the waters on my first Whumptober. I have vague plans to expand this story to cover all the days in order, but maybe that's a little ambitious. Feedback is very welcome! 
> 
> Prompts used:  
> Day 1: Waking up restrained  
> Day 2: Collars  
> Day 3: Forced to their knees


	2. Plug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind feedback, it's very encouraging and very appreciated! 
> 
> Please note a few new tags added. 

"You're not a virgin, are you?" 

Steve jerked back to awareness, and immediately regretted it. 

He wasn't sure how long he'd been zoned out. Fighting had gotten him nowhere but fucked even more, and his mind had retreated somewhere far away, somewhere cold and claustrophobic and unpleasantly familiar. Now, back in a body that ached in places he didn't know he had, sweat and spunk drying unpleasantly between his legs and on his lips—and, above it all, Stark standing over him expectantly—he longed to go back. 

When he didn't respond, there came a low whistle. "Damn, you are, aren't you?"

To Steve, the question was beyond comprehension. This, coming from the man who'd strapped him down and violated him, in unimaginable ways, at both ends. Hadn't that counted, in Stark's eyes? 

"From the way the old man went on about you, I would have thought you were pure sex in spandex. Hell, I'm shocked he didn't have a go himself, at this tight ass." 

Stark's palm fell on said ass with a clap, kneading it possessively. After all that had been done to him, it should have felt tame, but Steve still grunted and tried futilely to squirm away. 

In response, the hand only squeezed harder.

"Lucky for me, but it's going take _work_ , if I want to plunder that booty without breaking it too badly. Oh, don't make that sound, sunshine, I'm being so gentle with you. You should be grateful." 

Stark went to the cart with all the toys again, and Steve could have wept. Wasn't it enough? Was Stark really going to keep at it? How much could a human body take?

"Poor thing," crooned a voice in his ear, and Steve jerked again in his bonds. 

That wasn't Stark. 

It was the voice he'd heard when he'd first woken in this hell, a disembodied whisper with no apparent source. Was he going mad, on top of it all?

"You wish for a reprieve? I'll see what I can do..."

Steve turned to look, but again saw no one beside him. Only Stark standing with the cart, tutting over the selection like a housewife choosing the ripest fruit from the produce stand. He had just settled on one, fingers outstretched for it, when a shrill ringing sound interrupted him.

Instead, Stark reached into his jacket and drew out a slim rectangle that was apparently his phone. Squinted at the screen, and then let out a theatrical groan. As he put the device to his ear, he seemed to change his mind about what device he was going to grab, and settled on a blue, plug-shaped thing that flared at one end, like the spade in a suit of cards. 

"Oops," said the voice in Steve's ear. "He's more persistent than I thought. Best of luck, big boy."

Coming over to Steve with his selection, Stark pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, freeing his hand to stroke Steve's lips, first with the back of his thumb, then with the fat plug. 

"You've reached Iron Man," said Stark, pushing the plastic thing against Steve's mouth, crushing his lip against his clenched teeth. Steve did his veritable best to back away, almost managing to rock the bed with his revulsion, but of course there was nowhere to go. "I'm not here right now, leave a message. Kiss it, babe," he added to Steve, as a voice starting lecturing from his phone. Apparently he didn't care if it heard. "This is the only lube you're gonna get, so you better make it sloppy."

Steve's stomach dropped. Stark was going to make him _participate_ in his own violation. He wouldn't do it, he absolutely wouldn't.

But the thought of the thing going into him dry was equally horrifying. If he wanted to have any chance of fighting back, he had to play along for now, avoid injury. Cheeks burning with humiliation, he parted his lips, and let Stark stuff the whole thing in his mouth, leaving the base sticking out, like a pacifier. It was huge enough to bulge his cheeks, and the plastic taste filled his mouth. Stark began to thrust it with an unnecessary lewdness, and Steve groaned around it. 

There was no way that was going to fit in him. 

But he still licked it as well as he could, too fearful of the consequences to do otherwise.

"Yep, got a new toy," Stark said into the phone. 

A part of Steve had been hoping that he was being held captive by a deranged criminal, that if he escaped, there might be a chance of rescue, and Stark would be brought to justice. 

The matter-of-fact way Stark described this to a third party chilled him to the bone. Was the future really a world in which humans could be imprisoned and enslaved like this? What had all their fighting been for?

"...that's why I'm going to be especially pissed if I suit up and fly out there, for yet another false alarm," Stark continued. He popped the plug from Steve's mouth without warning, banging it against his teeth, and disappeared back around Steve, past his line of sight. 

"Stark, please," Steve found himself saying. "Don't put that thing in me. Don't—"

Stark put that thing in him. It slid more easily than he'd expected; he'd forgotten that there was still lube left in him from the earlier fuck, his entrance still loose and sloppy. But that didn't mean the size wasn't an issue. His ass just wasn't built to accommodate the girth Stark was insistent on cramming into it, all the while saying bored "uh huh"s into his phone. 

"Yeah, I get it," Stark snapped, cutting off another lecture that seemed to be building. "I'll head out in ten." The phone was still haranguing him when he hung up and dropped it in the cart. "That means this thing is going inside you in five, one way or another."

It sounded like a threat.

With both hands free, Stark began to push with increased force. Steve's muscles, still weak from the earlier assault, couldn't resist. The plug sank slowly, horribly, inexorably in, stretching him the whole way. There was an incredible burn, a tightness, a fullness like he couldn't have imagined. Steve refused to beg again, not for Stark's deaf ears, but it still dragged a desperate whine from him as he was pushed wide open, maybe irrecoverably.

When the widest part made it inside, it was almost a relief. His muscles closed around it, sealing it in, and he was just left with the impressive, aching fullness. Stark tugged backwards a little, and the plug wouldn't come out. It just nestled there inside him, making its presence constantly, aggressively known. He could feel every dimension of it pressing against his walls—and against the devilish spot that had bewitched him earlier. He flexed a little, trying to push the plug out, and his knees would have buckled if he hadn't already been strapped in place.

"Oh god," Steve moaned. 

"I don't think god is listening," Stark chuckled, patting the plug happily. Every tap seemed to make it move a mile inside Steve, brushing that magical spot, sending another jolt of shameful pleasure through him. No matter how he squirmed and shifted, he couldn't avoid the feeling. Every twitch went straight to his cock, and it didn't take long before he was rock hard again, dripping, trying to stop himself from grinding helplessly against the bed. 

Stark began to unbind Steve's hands, exposing his fists to the air for the first time in who knew how long. "Aww, you're bleeding," he cooed. "Dug your fingernails clean into your palm."

Steve hadn't even noticed the pain, but Stark kissed his palms mockingly. Steve didn't quite have the presence of mind to claw at his face before his hand was dropped.

"Anyway, I gotta go, duty calls. Jarvis will show you to your room." 

The other bindings were coming off of him too, the ankles, the thighs. Steve readied himself; this was the moment he'd been waiting for, that he'd borne all this for. As soon as his arms came free, he surged up, intending to strike the man behind him.

Stark somehow dodged out of the way, more agile than he looked, more agile than his father would have been, and Steve's fists connected with empty air. 

It didn't matter. Prioritize. Steve went for the door, staggered on weak legs as a wash of pins and needles ran through them, staggered again when the plug shifted horribly inside of him, sending another tide of pleasure through him, but he had to ignore it, he had to get out. He refused to think about what kind of world might be waiting for him out there. One step at a time. 

He made it one step, but barely a second, before a searing pain tore through him. It felt like someone had jammed a white-hot fork into the back of his skull, and twisted it. 

He collapsed right onto the ground, entire body seized up, clenched against the agony for what felt like an eternity. But when the pain subsided, the figures around him had barely moved, so it could only have lasted a few seconds at most. 

"I should have told you that was a shock collar," said Stark, coming forward to squat in front him. Then he quirked his lips. "Should I have? Doesn't matter, I'm telling you now. I'm gonna need to punish you for that little escape attempt, but not now, I'm busy. Remember that for me, will you? Jarvis, show him where to go."

An arrow lit up on the ground in front of Steve, projected from his collar. 

"No way," Steve said, and another bolt hit him like a truck. It was briefer this time, or he was just ready for it. When it subsided, he scrabbled for the collar on his neck with jerky movements, expecting at any time another strike—but he couldn't find any seam or latch, it felt like a smooth piece of metal all the way around. He only got a brief jolt of pain for his efforts, but it still brought tears to his eyes. 

"I won't—" he barely managed to grit out, before the collar shocked him again. It was another longer one this time, that left him gasping and sobbing, flopping on the ground like a beached fish. He couldn't remember anything ever hurting like this, even before he had the serum, and the aftershocks left him his every muscle clenching and twitching. 

"N-no more," his mouth begged, without any conscious input from his brain. "Please, I'll go. Please." 

He tried to get to this feet, but the collar only shocked him again. "Why?" he sobbed. "I'm going."

"On your hands and knees," Stark said. "Should've mentioned that too, huh? Jarvis will zap you if you try to get up, if you try to go the wrong way, if you hesitate more than, oh, let's say, thirty seconds."

The number 30:00 lit up on the ground in front of him, next to the arrow, and started ticking down immediately. Terror filled Steve, lifted him to his limbs, and thankfully the countdown stopped. 

"Hell, he can shock you just because he thinks it's funny," Stark was still rambling. "But don't worry, I never gave him a sense of humor."

Shakily, Steve began to crawl towards the arrow, his plugged ass sticking up into the air, for all to see. The arrow disappeared when he got close, and reappeared a few feet away. Humiliated, feeling the burning eyes of the entire room on him, Steve kept his head down, and moved his four limbs, one after another. He was desperate not to get shocked again, but he couldn't go quickly either—every movement jostled the plug in his ass, and his erection was bobbing prominently underneath him as he went, weeping a trail of precome beneath him. 

"You're like a little slug, aren't you?"

"Please," Steve said, "just take it out. I'll go, I'll crawl, but not with this thing in me."

"Love the begging," said Stark. "But no. Jarvis, shock him if he tries to take it out. I gotta jet."

Somehow, Steve made it into the hallway, the torturous thing wagging inside him with each step. His thighs were quivering from the effort, and he was nearly sure he'd explode if he made one more movement.

No one had followed him. 

Taking a chance, he swung around, reaching desperately for the plug, but the invisible Jarvis was fast on the trigger. Steve collapsed again, mouth open in silent pain. 

"You don't have to do this, Jarvis," Steve said, hoarsely, when he could. "You don't have to follow his orders, please. Are you a captive too? I'll help you, please."

"Captive?" said Jarvis, from the ceiling. He had a foreign accent. British or the like. "That couldn't be further from the case. You have 15 seconds."

Steve looked up to see that the timer had followed him out here, and was still counting down. Weakly, he struggled upwards. It took him 15 seconds just to get to his hands and knees again, limbs at any moment feeling like they might deposit him back on the ground, but Jarvis mercifully seemed to count it as progress, as the timer reset. 

Steve continued his humiliating crawl down the hallway, barely taking in his surroundings in the mindless haze of pleasure and agony and need. He had the vague impression of sleek, futuristic surroundings, like a spaceship from one of those sci-fi movies. Every time he hesitated, rebellion on his mind, the glowing timer reappeared, and it was enough to spur him back into motion. 

Eventually the arrows led through an open door, which opened into a spacious room. There was a huge, four-poster bed taking prominence, and heavy shades blotting out the windows, so he still couldn't tell the time of day. 

As the door swung shut behind him, he sagged into the plush carpet, and tried to gather his wrecked thoughts. His cock was shamelessly hard, dribbling, hot as a brand when it brushed against his thigh. 

Instead of getting his bearings, instead of searching for an escape, the first thing Steve found himself doing, given the opportunity, was to mindlessly grab it, and began jacking himself off. Eagerly parting his thighs, he spilled himself onto his ass—and gasped, as the floor pressed the plug deeper into him. 

He _loved_ it. 

It was so wrong, but he couldn't help it. 

He still had the taste of his captor's dick in his mouth, he'd just been fucked in front of a whole room, and yet here he was, moaning like some cheap whore, and he couldn't stop doing it, couldn't stop grinding himself against the plug, fist pumping furiously, until he tugged himself to a screaming completion. 

It wasn't until the blissful white out subsided into shame and horror that he realized that Jarvis must still be watching him. 

He opened his eyes, and saw that the timer had reappeared, and was still ticking down. 

There were twenty seconds left, which meant it had taken less than ten for him to reach the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life—that was how badly he'd wanted it. 

"Jarvis, why?" he said, getting back mindlessly on his hands and knees. His right hand was still wet with his spend, but he didn't have time to do anything about it. The timer was still running, he was going to be shocked _again_ , and his body, still soft and sensitive and tingling from coming, couldn't take it—

Wildly, he looked around, and saw that there was a new arrow, pointing into the corner. Or more accurately, into a cage set into the corner. It was so small he hadn't noticed it at first glance—too small for him to possibly fit. 

But the timer was still running.

"Jarvis," he said urgently, "Please, I can't go in there! That's... that's for a dog!"

There was no response. The timer was in the single digits now now. Some cowardly desperation forced him to crawl forward until he got to the cage, that damned plug stimulating him anew, even in that short distance. 

The metal bars were deceptively thin; Steve wasted a moment to test them: they felt ominously solid under his grip, and didn't bend under any force he could apply. 

He wouldn't be breaking out of this once he got in. 

It felt foolish to put himself into such a vulnerable position, but his limbs were still weak and trembling, and even if he tried to run now, he wouldn't get far before the shock collar brought him to his knees again. 

He crammed his arms and head into it first, working to squeeze his shoulders into the narrow space, and squirmed his way inside. He didn't think he'd fit, but the timer was projected onto the wall in front of him now, on the other side of the bars, and was quickly ticking down. With a rush of determination, he tucked his knees into his chest, laying down on his side to accommodate them, and was instantly pinned into place. 

As soon as his bare feet cleared the opening, the cage shut with a solid click, just like the collar had clicked into place behind his neck. 

Immediately, that collar seemed to tighten around his throat, and the bars seemed to close in on him, compressing him from every side. 

A panic set in, as he tried to kick his legs out against the door, but he had no room, no leverage, and the feeble, tiny kicks did nothing. 

"No! Let me out!" he yelled, straining against the bars on all sides of him, but there was no give. 

He had put himself willingly into this position, and he'd be held tightly in place like this by the bars—immobilized, plugged, aching—until someone came to let him out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last month was Prostate Cancer Awareness Month, make sure you and your loved ones get checked if applicable!
> 
> Prompts used:  
> Day 4: Running out of time & Caged  
> Day 5: Failed escape  
> Day 6: Please.... & "Get it Out" & No More & "Stop, please"


	3. Whip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never though I'd warn for _lack_ of smut, but there's no sex in this chapter.
> 
> Again, some new tags have been added, beware! 
> 
> Side note: I noticed that I accidentally tagged this fic with "Mild Language". (I think I meant to put "Mild Breathplay" for the first chapter, but got autocompleted.) Hope some of you got a chuckle at the idea of warning for saying "hell" alongside explicit rape and shock collars. I've taken that off and added the Breathplay tag for real this time.

It was impossible to measure how long he spent in that cage. 

Long enough for his limbs to cramp, and then ache, and then dull to an even more worrying numbness.

Long enough to fall asleep, only to wake, find himself still trapped, and begin to thrash against the bars anew. Eventually he'd fight himself to exhaustion and drift off again, a cycle that felt interminable—which was a laugh, considering how long he must have spent frozen under the ocean. But at least he hadn't been aware for it. 

Long enough to curse himself for getting inside, a thousand times over. Stark hadn't even been present, the mysterious Jarvis nothing but a voice from afar. No one hand manhandled him into the cage. He'd crawled right into it himself, and tucked meekly into a ball so it could lock behind him.

He'd panicked, that was the long and short of it. 

Captain Rogers, always cool under pressure, had let himself get overwhelmed by trivialities: waking in a nightmarish future, a flashy countdown timer and a bit of electricity, and... and other things. 

Things that he was being very, very careful not to bump, or shift. 

Every time he forgot, every time he clenched, or moved restlessly within the limited confines available to him, the plug was quick to reassert its presence. He was sure that if he bucked against it, ground into the corner that his ass was fetched up against, he could very quickly lose himself in that heady sensation. 

So he wouldn't. 

He wouldn't.

By the time the cage clicked open behind him, he was close to delirium. He kicked backwards, half expecting the sound to have been some hallucination, to meet metal as he had every time before—and nearly lost it when his leg actually extended.

Stifling a cry, terrified that the cage might shut again at any moment, he began to shuffle his way back out. At first he was so tightly wedged in that he was afraid he wouldn't be able to move, even with the door wide open behind him, but then he got both knees unbent, and managed to worm his way to freedom. 

Well, freedom from one cage.

A larger one to go. He didn't waste time lying in a heap of cramped muscles, pins and needles. The first thing he did was reach around and pull the plug out. It took a couple tries to dig his fingers in under the horrible thing, still stick with some futuristic space lube that stayed impossibly slippery even now. 

Once he got a grip on it, he pulled, ignoring the strange sensation of it breaching muscles that had closed up around it—half pleasure and half pain, and by his own hand, this time. 

By the time the widest part came free, he had his cheek crammed into the fibers of the carpet, ass up, mouth wide open in a silent gasp. Then it was done, and he threw the thing as far away as possible. It landed, rolled into one of the legs of the massive bed and lay there, innocently nestled into the carpet. 

Belatedly, he flinched, expecting a shock from the collar, but none came. 

Jarvis was probably off shift—small mercies.

Aching, leg muscles trembling, Steve got to his feet, and hurried to search his surroundings. He found an adjoining bathroom, and took the most bladder-relieving piss of his life. 

Then he parted the shades, and wasted precious time just staring. 

It was clearly the Manhattan that stared back at him, but far from the one he'd left behind. He must have been at least thirty floors up, and even at nighttime, the city beneath him was lit up like a gaudy ballroom. He half thought he was witnessing some gala—a carnival, a New Year's celebration—but he was hard pressed to imagine an event of this scale, spanning the entire city. Did that mean that the city shone like this every night? A million lights glittered in the streets below him, cars zipping along with frenetic energy, signs flashing every color of the rainbow like he was in a penny arcade, peering into the pinball machine. 

For the first time, he began to wonder if he was maybe farther in the future than he thought. 

Hundreds of years, maybe. Long enough for the America that he'd fought for, that he'd sacrificed everything for, to have warped into the twisted dystopia he found himself in. There were other towering buildings all around, and he had the chilling thought that there might be slaves trapped in each of them, subjected to the same treatment as he was.

Even if he could get out there, where would he go? Everyone he had known might well be dead by now, past the limits of a mortal lifespan. 

He half hoped so, that they hadn't lived to see a world like this. 

But it meant that none of the comrades he'd fought alongside even existed anymore. It meant that there was no help waiting for him, anywhere, in the world.

Steve Rogers, a man out of time, was utterly alone. 

But that didn't change the fact that _out there_ had to be better than _in here_.

Steve shook himself, and began to work the window, looking for a latch. The room was quite a ways up. Even he didn't know if he could survive that kind of jump, but he'd worry about escaping first, getting down after that. 

"I must warn you," came Jarvis's voice from the ceiling, when Steve tore off the shower curtain, and wrapped it around his fist, so he could try to smash the window open with it. Did that guy never sleep? "This is unlikely to be successful, and Master Stark will be very displeased."

"Why don't you shock me?" said Steve nastily, giving up on that particular window, and moving back out to the bedroom. 

"I have not been ordered to do so," said Jarvis, "though I suspect my parameters will soon change, once your behavior is reviewed."

Whatever that meant.

The bedroom windows were equally well secured, not even a seam or a hinge, just like the collar, just like the cage. He picked up the closest piece of furniture, a nightstand, letting the lamp crash off it. It was harder to lift than it should have been—either they made things heavier in this glorious future, or his body was still weak—but he managed to heft it at the glass pane with good force. 

Where it bounced right off, with a comical "bonk". 

Fighting down a surge of hopelessness, he went to the door next, and found it, naturally, locked. Before he could really put his shoulder into it, he heard footsteps outside, and quickly moved to the hinge side, so that when it opened, he'd be hidden behind it. 

If he couldn't make it out on his own, then he'd do it with some help—willing or not. 

The door creaked open.

Stark stepped into the doorway, and paused. 

In his hiding spot, Steve held his breath, waiting. 

Only a single wood panel of door separated the two of them. 

"You're not going to be able to get the drop on me," Stark said, conversationally. He grossly underestimated Steve's desperation. 

Cover blown, Steve just went for it. He slammed the door into Stark with a satisfying thump, hoping he'd gotten Stark's good arm with that, or his skull. Without a pause, he pivoted around the door, found Stark doubling over, and yanked him into a headlock, elbow over his throat, opposite hand pinning one of his and grasping for the other. 

"Try and shock me now," Steve said into Stark's ear, pressing his naked body flush against the back of Stark's suit jacket. They were skin to skin, back to front. A shock would hurt Stark as much as it hurt Steve. 

A man like Stark wouldn't risk it.

Would he? 

"You really shouldn't have done that," Stark said. 

"We're going to take a nice walk down to street level," Steve replied, already racing through it in his mind. A building like this had to have elevators. That would take forever, though, to get down all those floors, in an indefensible position—basically a metal box dangling from a wire. Maybe the stairs instead?

"Did you really think the only feature I built into that collar was a zap?"

About to ask, Steve choked instead. A hard pressure on his trachea squeezed his throat, constricting his airway. The collar was tightening on him, cutting off his breath to a desperate wheeze, and then nothing.

But he couldn't panic. He tightened his hold on Stark's neck in return. 

Two could play at that game. If it was a matter of lasting longer, Steve had the advantage of the supersoldier serum. That, and basically nothing to lose.

He could win this, he thought—until something crashed through the window behind him, the one that had taken a blow from the too-heavy nightstand, without a scratch to tell the tale. 

Steve half turned to see what could have shattered it on impact, which was why the first strike caught him in the side of his gut. He bowled over, grip slacking despite himself, and the second one caught him in the back, knocking the last of the precious air from his lungs, and crumpling him to the ground.

Straining for a new breath that wouldn't come, he looked upwards to see two gauntlets fly to Stark, intricate pieces flickering in an insect-like dance, fitting around his forearms like, well, a glove. Steve once again considered the idea that he might actually be centuries in the future, but it was a distant thought. The rest of him was wrestling with the collar that was choking the life out of him, unable to even dig his fingers under it to find a grip. 

Just when he was about to lose consciousness, Stark snapped the fingers of his gauntlets, and the collar slackened. Steve rolled over, gasping, coughing, sucking in shaking, eager lungfuls of air. 

And that was when Stark zapped him.

He lost time in the excruciating pain, vaguely aware that Stark was moving around him. Eventually the current subsided, but before he could begin to unclench his muscles, Stark was back, and picking him up like he weighed nothing. 

That was impossible.

Stark shouldn't have had that kind of strength—those gauntlets alone had to weigh a ton, and he was wearing them and dragging Steve at the same time. 

Had Howard experimented on his own son with the serum? 

Or was the future full of superhumans?

Weakly, Steve tried to fight back. His struggles only increased as he realized he was being carried back to the cage, but to no avail. 

Stark didn't stuff him back into it, but arranged him over it, face down. Forced into a kneeling position, the height of the cage—claustrophobically low from within—was just high enough to bend him over at the waist. 

His groin settled on something soft—Stark had taken a pillow from the bed, and put it over sharp corner, which was surprisingly considerate of him. Otherwise the metal edge might have made a eunuch of him. Steve's bare chest, though, was ground against the cold metal, his nipples hardening on contact, his face pressed down to stare between the bars into his recent accommodations.

He felt his arms, still trembling and unresponsive, stretched out, and locked to the far edge. Funny he hadn't noticed the waiting manacles during his stay. There were shackles on the floor too, ready to secure his knees to the foot of the cage. Everything precisely measured to Steve's dimensions, with a chilling, methodical foresight. 

How long had Stark been planning this?

How many others had he done this to? 

Limbs bound, bare ass sticking up helplessly into the air yet again, Steve had very few illusions about what he was in for. 

But Stark only briefly touched him, finger dipping into his loose and sloppy entrance, almost wistful as they stroked him inside. "It's been a long day, and I just wanted to enjoy my new toy. Instead you just had to go and do something like this, and now I have to discipline you instead."

"My heart bleeds." Steve's voice was hoarse from the strangulation, and hurt to use. He flexed his muscles, trying to find some give, some slack, anything, but only succeeded in rattling his bonds.

Stark still had one gauntlet on. He extended it, and a number of long, black wires extruded from a hatch in its palm, like pasta from a machine. They kept growing and growing until they fell to the floor with a whisper, and then just hung there, swaying gently. Stark closed his fist around the ends where they emerged, getting a good grip on them, and then began to swish them around in the air, taking a few test swings, cracking them, rather like—

"You have got to be kidding me," Steve said. 

Stark did not appear to be kidding. 

"Electro-whip. It's a little Star Wars, but useful. Discipline your slave without impairing their functionality. That could be a marketing thing. Jarvis, write that down."

"Duly noted," said the ceiling. 

"You're sick," Steve said, but he doubted that this was news to anyone watching: himself, Jarvis, or Stark himself, for that matter. Stark stepped back and let Steve wear himself out, thrashing against his cuffs. The cage that had held him inside for an eternity now held him equally firmly from beneath. 

"I know you have some old-timey values, Cap," said Stark casually, and it stung even more to be called that, a title for a hero, when he was currently anything but. "But in this modern day and age, we have this concept of paying our debts."

There was that word again, debt. Steve wasn't going to give in, wasn't going to ask, but Stark didn't give him a chance to. Just circled around behind him, and let the first lash fall.

It was liquid fire, running across his back. 

He could count every wire after all, because he could feel each one where it landed. Five of them, fanned over his back, each one kissing him with white-hot agony. Even a brief flick of contact drew a stripe of searing pain from his every nerve, and he howled with it. His fists clenched, his thighs tightened, and he bucked up against the restraints, but there was nowhere to go, he'd already found that out. 

A second lash fell across him, and he choked out a new scream, not even done with the first.

"You would still be a popsicle right now if it weren't for my rescue teams, tirelessly combing the oceans, year after year. You have no idea how much of a bill you've racked up, do you?" 

Steve didn't know how he was expected to listen, while the whip fell across him, again and again, no rhythm or predictable pattern, seeming to find five fresh strips of unmolested skin to electrify each time. Stark was breathing heavily with the exertion, but he didn't let up—on the whipping, or the lecturing. 

"I have debts too, obviously. I still owe you multiple punishments, for one thing. Your first escape attempt." Crack. "Taking out the plug I'd specifically put in you—big no no. I'll have to train you out of that." Crack. "And trying to attack me. Cute, but unacceptable. At this rate, you're never going to catch up." 

No, Steve couldn't keep up at all. 

He was getting lightheaded, he was loosening from his body, he was nothing but the searing pain that drowned out everything else, the sharp crack of the whip, the hoarse shouts that he kept forgetting were his own, until occasionally he'd choke on his own saliva, and the sound would cut off.

When the whipping stopped, it took him a long while to realize it. His nerves still wept, and his jaw was still tightly clenched, waiting for the next blow. 

Instead of another strike, it was Stark's hand that fell onto his shoulder, but he still jerked and whimpered at the touch. 

When he peeled open his wet eyes. He was still staring into the cage, and this time he could see something dark dripping into it, puddling the floor. Blood. His own blood. 

"No... physical damage... huh?" he managed.

"I got a little carried away. To be fair, you're infuriating. J, send up a med kit. And some soup." 

Steve would have drifted away, but Stark kept stroking him, on the shoulder, down the arm, and every gentle touch made him flinch and shudder anew.

Eventually a rich, savory aroma hit his nose, and Steve opened his eyes again. Stark had pulled up a chair and was sitting in front of him, with a bowl in his hands, a spoon. The gauntlets were nowhere to be seen, and he didn't look remotely ruffled from having just whipped a human being to shreds. 

"Don't get this on my suit," Stark said, holding out a spoonful of soup. "You can't afford it."

Despite himself, Steve found himself taking the spoonful carefully, sucking in with his lips to avoid spilling a drop. Amazing what corporal punishment will do to a person's willingness to cooperate. It tasted like chicken noodle, saltier than it had been, back in his time.

He hated it.

Stark fed him the whole bowl, and then disappeared behind him again. 

It hurt, but Steve couldn't help but tense up. Was it going to be the whip again? Or the fucking? 

"Just going to close these open wounds," Stark said, reproachful, as if it were Steve's fault he had them, as if he'd just spontaneously generated the lash marks at will. 

There was a faintly medicinal smell, and a touch on his back that made him hiss, but it quickly turned to blessed numbness. He would have been surprised that Stark was even bothering, but he suspected it was something to do with keeping his toys in working order. Or keeping the blood off his floor. 

"Look, Cap," said Stark as he worked, "You agreed to my dear old dad's experiments. Why?"

Steve tried to focus. He didn't know what was going on anymore, but he did know he wanted the pain to stop. Stark was touching the welts and open cuts on his back. At any time the touches could turn painful again. He hated himself for giving in so easily, but if he was answering questions, he wasn't hurting. Probably. 

"For the greater good," Steve croaked out. His voice sounded like the creak of a rusty old gate. "To serve my country."

"There, see?" said Stark triumphantly. "Things are different, in this day and age. A guy with a shield isn't going to much good against drones and missiles. This is the best way you can serve your country now."

There came a tearing sound, and then Stark began to stretch the bandages over him, taping his skin back together like a jigsaw. "See, every piece of decent technology they're using in the military these days, I'm the brains behind it. The stuff that came out of my labs today is going to do more good than you could in a lifetime, prancing around in your reds and blues. You want to serve your country? Just lie back and spread your legs for me, keep me happy. You get it?"

Steve didn't say anything, which earned him a harder pat than needed, to adhere the bandage. "I get it," he choked out. 

"Just be good for me, and I'll be good to you, Cap."

Steve grunted. There wasn't a single good thing he could say to that, not while chained to this cage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used:  
> Day 7: Enemy to Caretaker  
> Day 8: Isolation  
> Day 9: For the greater good  
> Day 10: Blood Loss
> 
> I accidentally also used Whipped from Day 31 out of order. May come back and retroactively count it, if I get to the end and desperately need one more for completionist. 
> 
> Thanks for the continued feedback, and especial thanks to [sabrecmc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrecmc) for reccing this fic to others - I'm honored! 


	4. Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags once again! Also, the Breathplay tag I added last time comes back in full force, and I go a little darker than I expected. Please proceed with caution! 

From whipping, Stark moved, almost immediately, to fucking. 

There had been terrible soup, and bandages. There might even have been a step in there where Stark was working him open, with eager fingers and fresh lube, but Steve was drifting on a haze of pain and blood loss by then. He found it hard to concentrate, even knowing that there was something terrible being done to his body. 

It wasn't until Stark mounted him, shoving into him with all the intimate force of a gut punch, that Steve cried out, and began to struggle again weakly. 

Compared to the toys, Stark's penis was as hot as a a live coal, and thick, and _moved_ inside him the way plastic hadn't. Stark rutted against him a few times before draping his body over Steve's, arms coming around him in yet another cage. Rough hands clapped over his ears, grasping the sides of his head and using it for leverage as he fucked into Steve's waiting hole in earnest, opening him up with every thrust. 

It shouldn't have been this easy.

Steve thought his body should have fought back more, but he was limp with exhaustion, Stark had prepared him well, and the cock slid home like he'd been made to take it. 

It still hurt, terribly, like he was being stuffed to his very limits, and then stretched out some more, but he couldn't put up even a ounce of resistance, couldn't slow the intrusion by a millimeter. Soon he was filled to the brim with Stark, and burning alive from the inside with every hot, slick stroke. 

Stark hadn't undressed more than was necessary for the act; it wasn't a bare chest that pressed into his back, but fabric, with hard button edges that pressed into him. Every motion aggravated the welts on his back, and that alone could have made him weep, but none of it hurt as much as the invasive member carving into him, prying him apart.

"Your ass is so good, so tight." Stark's voice was breathy and distracted, like he was utterly absorbed in his task. "I gave you that plug as a gift, to loosen you up. This could have gone a lot easier for you, if I'd been able to fuck you straight away, instead of having to discipline you first."

"Maybe if it wasn't for the torture—" Steve began, but it turned into a cry, as Stark gave him a particularly vicious thrust. The truth was, it was already sinfully easy, and the tightness, the friction that remained was as delicious as it was wrong, lighting up his every nerve ending almost as much as the whip had. 

Steve tried to distance himself, tell himself that he wasn't enjoying his rape, but his body was molten sensation, every inch of him aflame, inside and out. 

"Is that how you get your kicks, you sick asshole?" he managed to gasp out. "Does whipping someone bloody turn you on?" 

Abruptly, the motions stilled.

It was all Steve could do not to thrust back against him, chasing that sensation. 

Stark released his head, letting his chin bang down onto the cage, and straightened up. Ran his hands down either side of Steve's neck, over the collar, down across his bandaged back. Even overheated as he was, Stark's hands felt hotter still, and drew tingling trails down Steve's skin wherever they went. 

"Did it turn _you_ on, Cap?" he said, pleasantly, and Steve choked trying to deny it. His body was crying out for more, his penis rock hard and dripping into the pillow it nestled against. What could he say against that?

"This is better for your first time anyway. Make you feel it." Stark resumed his earlier train of thought, as he resumed his movements, with agonizing slowness, emphasizing each filthy syllable that dropped from his lips with another languid thrust. "Every inch of my cock in your virgin hole. No one else can ever have this from you. I hope you weren't saving it for someone, because it's mine. You're mine."

Steve's wrists yanked against their manacles again, raw flesh giving before the steel. He wanted more than anything to plug his ears, tune out Stark's words, but the cuffs stopped him. He was helpless to prevent even that assault. 

"Oh, and, to answer your question," Stark added, "Yeah. It sure does get me going."

His hand came down on Steve's mangled back, hard, making him gasp in pain, and arch, and clench around the intrusion inside him.

"That's it," Stark hissed, "Love it when you squeeze for me, baby. Love ruining your body for my pleasure." 

Stark leaned back over him and picked up the rhythm, and Steve tried to convince himself that the obscene sounds he let out were a protest, not an encouragement. 

"Who would have thought? That super soldier serum, it wasn't for making you the perfect soldier, it was for making you the perfect fucktoy. Look at those gorgeous, ripped thighs. Did you spend hours training for this? Slaving away in the gym, straining, struggling, just to build these muscles for me? So you could clench them so good around my cock? Did you know back then? That everything you did, your entire life till now, was to end up here, nothing but a warm sleeve for my dick. You're obsolete, Cap. In this day and age, that's all you're good for. You shouldn't even be alive. The only purpose of your existence now is to bring me pleasure."

Steve opened his mouth to protest, and Stark invaded it instead, all the fingers of his hand pressed together in a wedge, forcing his mouth open, thrusting into it in counterpoint to his cock. Steve wanted to bite down, but he couldn't seem to coordinate his muscle movements. The fingers tasted of oil, artificial and mineraly, and the taste coated his tongue as it jabbed in and out. 

"If your body wasn't made for my use, why do you love it so much? Why are you moaning like a little slut?"

It was true, Steve couldn't deny it. Steve's hips were rocking helplessly now, trying to get more of Stark's cock, trying to find friction for his own against a padded surface that was far too soft for it. He knew with absolute certainty that if Stark wrapped that hand around his penis, he'd come with a single touch, a prospect he both wanted and dreaded.

Stark seemed to read his mind. "Nuh-uh, I'm not going to touch you. Gonna make you come from my cock alone. You don't think you can, right? You think only a whore would come from being degraded like this, fucked like this, used like this? Well guess what? That's what you are. That's what you were made for."

"Please," Steve tried to say, muffled around Stark's fingers, which continued to thrust into his mouth. What could Stark possibly get out of that, except to humiliate him more? To his horror, Steve found himself wrapping his lips around those fingers, sucking on them as they moved, unable to stop imagining he was wrapping them around Stark's dick instead. Like he'd done in that infirmary earlier, putting up no resistance as his mouth and throat was used for Stark's pleasure, a room full of witnesses watching him submit. Why did that memory come flooding back now, and why did it make him whimper and tremble and work his lips over those unforgiving digits?

"I own you," Stark said, as if in answer, and a part of Steve responded to it. Stark had captured him, tied him down, was using his wrecked body like an object, a plaything. "I own you, and this is all you'll ever amount to, from now on. Just a warm set of holes for me to fuck whenever I want. Thank me, fucktoy. Thank me, for showing you your true purpose. Thank me, for making you the cocksleeve you were always destined to be."

Steve tried to speak, but it came out a strangled whine. Before he could find out what he would have said, given the chance, he felt the collar start to tighten around his neck again. 

"Stark, wait," Steve said, panicked, still muffled around the fingers. "I didn't do anything—" 

The last was choked off, but Stark seemed to understand him just fine. "Just showing you your place. You won't resist any part of yourself to me. You don't move unless I let you. You don't breathe unless I say you can. If I want to fuck you senseless while you're blacking out, then that's just what I'll do."

A white-hot panic was filling him, his body writhing without his input, struggling furiously for another breath, just a tiny of sliver of air. But the collar was merciless. 

Behind him, Stark grunted in pleasure. "That's it, baby," he said, "You're getting so tight for me, that's it." 

Steve was fighting for his life, and all Stark cared was that it made his hole a better, tighter fuck.

Without warning, the collar loosened, just enough to give him a little sliver of breath, and then it tightened again. Steve jerked himself against the cage, manacles clattering, muscles working frantically, trying futilely to throw Stark off, pull his hands to his throat, anything. 

This time, his vision was starting to white out at the edges before the pressure released, and allowed Steve his precious gasp of air. As his lungs filled, the sensation flooded back into him, heady and intense. The scrape of Stark's cock inside him, the weight of another body boxing him in, holding him down, hands resting on neck, as if the collar weren't enough. 

"You loved that, didn't you?" Stark chuckled. "Choking for me, while I used your hole. Again?"

"No," Steve said urgently. "No, no, please no—"

He was cut off. It seemed to go on interminably, Stark pounding into him, turning his air off and on like he was idly flipping a switch. Steve struggling fruitlessly every time, dragged down into a tunnel of pitch blackness, entire being narrowed down to nothing but the desperate need to breathe. When it was finally granted to him, he floated. The rest of the world came rushing back to him, the sensation unbearably intense, like he was suddenly jammed back into this body that was being fucked and assaulted and stimulated beyond its limits.

"This is going to be the rest of your life," Stark mused, on one of the upswings. "Might keep you chained to my bed. Use your holes whenever I want. Play with your breathing like this."

Stark grasped his hair and pulled his head back by the roots, and Steve inhaled raggedly, frantically, as his neck was bent back, terrified that the breath was going to be taken from him again.

But Stark only pulled him back far enough to hiss into his ear, "You'd like that, wouldn't you. Chained to my bed. Used as my come rag, my little fleshlight. I'll jerk myself off in you whenever I want."

Something in him broke at that. 

This treatment proved it, that he was utterly helpless, his body just a thing for Stark to use. The terrible fate Stark was describing, Steve had no way to avoid it, no hope of escape, and as Stark continued to fuck into him, somehow _that_ was the thought that sent him right over the edge—

"That's it, come for me, show me that's what you want. Show me how much you love being my toy."

Even through the haze of pleasure, Steve tried to deny it, but it was too late, he was already coming with the force of an explosion, his every muscle tightening, quivering, locking with the sensation, any thought of trying to hide it wiped from his mind as he cried out at the top of his lungs. 

Stark thrust only a few more times before coming inside him too, with a satisfied grunt, and only then did he let Steve's head fall. 

When he pulled out, Steve could feel the come seeping from his hole.

"If your body wasn't made for me, why do you get off on this?" Stark said, giving his ass a groping, caressing slap. "You came before I did, just from my cock in your ass, my collar on your throat. Remember that, Cap."

Steve remembered.

Afterwards, when he was released from his chains, he didn't even try to escape, just curled up around himself, shaken, shattered. His fingers scrabbled under the collar, working themselves raw, trying mindlessly to pry it off. Every time he stopped, he felt like it was closing in on him again, and he had no way to fight it, nothing he could even struggle against to win back his air.

"Tell you what," Stark said, after watching him struggle for a while. He'd cleaned himself off, pulled his pants back up, redid his belt. He didn't even look ruffled. "I put that thing on you to show the world you're mine. You let me put my brand on you instead, I'll think about taking the collar off."

The word "brand" seemed to sear into Steve's brain. 

A permanent mark, that would never come off, showing him as an object, as property. Stark's property. 

He couldn't do it. 

But he couldn't wear the collar either, knowing that it left him at Stark's whims, knowing that at any moment, it could close his throat, and for as long as Stark chose.

Unwillingly, Steve nodded, a short, sharp jerk of the head.

"You'll have to do better than that. Ask me nicely. Where are those old-timey manners?"

"Please," Steve said. "Please... put your mark on me."

"Where?" Stark grinned. "Show me."

Steve couldn't breathe with the collar on. He had to do this. He remembered how those fingers had traced lasciviously over his rump, and his lips tightened grimly. Got down on his hands and knees, and presented himself for Stark's gaze. He couldn't quite bring himself to slap his own ass, but it seemed to do the trick.

"Oh, very nice. Well, if you insist. Hold still for me."

Instead of holding still, Steve jerked his head around. "You're going to do it now?"

"I don't know how they did it back in your day, Gramps, but we don't have to heat brands over the fireplace anymore." 

Stark held out his hand to the side, and one of the gauntlets flew back onto it. When he extended his index finger, it opened up, and something came telescoping out of it, a cross between a flashlight and a pen. But instead of of going for his ass, Stark pulled up a chair, and sat down right in front of him.

"Give me your hand," he said, holding out his palm for it, gauntlet hovering at the ready. "The right one."

Steve hesitated. That was his sketching hand, his writing hand. What was Stark going to do to it?

"Don't make me repeat myself."

The collar, Steve thought. Like a visitor in his own body, observing it from the outside, he lifted his hand, and placed it into Stark's grip. "I thought you were going to do it..."

"I'm gonna put one on your pretty ass because you asked for it," Stark said. "But this is the official one. Don't move."

The index-finger flashlight pointed itself at Steve's hand, and a laser shot out. It began to swivel freely, inscribing on the web between Steve's thumb and forefinger, in typewriter-neat block letters, "PROPERTY OF A. E. S." Against all the other pain, it was hardly more than a sting, but when Steve drew his hand back, he still felt like he'd had the breath knocked out of him. When he put his hand back on the floor, bracing himself for what was next, he couldn't stop looking at the text that had been indelibly etched onto his body. 

"That's so you'll always be able to see it," Stark said, circling around behind him, grabbing a palmful of his butt cheek. "This one's for me. So I can see it."

The sting came again, not on the curve of his cheek, as he'd expected, but at the base of his spine, right above the crack of his ass. 

When it was done, Steve sank down into the carpet, covered his right hand with his left, and tried to hold himself from falling to pieces. 

"Would've been a waste to put it on that luscious booty," Stark said. There was the sounds of him putting some things away, maybe picking up his other gauntlet. "Went for the tramp stamp instead. Seemed fitting."

Steve couldn't bring himself to react. As if his aching, leaking hole wasn't reminder enough, it was written on him now, whom he belonged to—and he'd allowed it to happen. What had his life become?

The sound of the door startled Steve's eyes open. "Wait!" he cried. "The collar? You said you'd take it off. Stark, please."

"Hmm..." Stark paused in the doorway. He twitched his hand, and the collar tightened briefly around Steve's throat, not to choke him, but just a playful reminder, to let him know it could. 

Steve's entire body went cold, as he stilled, waiting for more. 

"Changed my mind," Stark said with a wink, and locked the door behind him. "Why don't you keep it." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used:  
> Day 11: Struggling  
> Day 12: Broken Down & Broken Trust  
> Day 13: Breathe in breathe out  
> Day 14: Branding


	5. CILL-E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags today, and they are sure... some tags. Boy.
> 
> Appreciate the positive feedback! It's intimidating to post this stuff, so it helps to see people are enjoying it. 

Steve was left a broken, aching mess, but at least he was left alone. 

It was three or four days before he saw Stark again, almost long enough to start carving a tally into the wall, if he had been in any state of mind to care to keep track.

The first day was mostly pain. Every tiny movement hurt: walking, sitting, lying down. He spent a lot of it moving gingerly around like an old man, re-trying all the windows and doors, reacquainting himself with the futility of escape. He passed the night wallowing in soreness and despair. There were no sheets on the bed, no towels in the bathroom, no cases on the pillows—nothing to cover himself with. Stark wanted him naked and exposed. The room was kept comfortably warm, but he would have traded the warmth for a shred of modesty in a heartbeat.  
  
By the second day, most of the pain had faded, along with the worst of the injuries, courtesy of his healing factor. Thanks to Howard for undoing what his son had done. 

As for the despair, well. 

Peeling off his bandages in the mirror, to show faint welts of fresh, pink skin streaking his back, Steve tried to take comfort in his body's resiliency. If his body could come back from this, so could the rest of him. As ridiculous as he'd always found the persona, he was Captain America. He had agreed to take the serum, to become the hero that the country needed at the time. 

It _meant_ something, that all those people looked up to him. 

Used to look up to him. 

He couldn't just roll over and spread his legs, not the national icon who had once toured the troops and lifted up the spirits of thousands.

He had to get through this. And that meant he had to get free.

The cell was, as these things went, relatively comfortable. He only had to look at the empty dog cage hulking in the corner, still stained with his blood, to remember how things could be worse. 

Sometimes when he woke, there was food waiting for him, or ice water, pure bliss on his aching throat, or a fresh pillow. He couldn't understand how these deliveries happened, how he always slept through them, when other times he woke at the slightest sound: passing planes, the heater buzzing, footfalls outside, imagined or otherwise.

One time he followed the sound of the heater to a vent tucked behind the desk, and spent an afternoon trying to work it open, using his bare hands and a bar of soap that he'd lathered to suds, trying to loosen the edges. He didn't even have a plan for what he'd do once he got it open—it was too narrow to fit more than an arm—but it still frustrated him when it remained stubbornly fixed. 

"I feel obliged to inform you," Jarvis remarked, after a while, from the ceiling. "I am still watching." 

By then Steve's fingertips were as rubbed raw as his wrists, and he gave up the vent as a lost cause. The next morning, a fresh bar appeared with his breakfast. He'd never felt so mocked by a soap before. 

Besides the poorly-conceived vent plan, he tried fashioning weapons from what he could find, a splintered leg of furniture ("Leave that by the door, please," said Jarvis), a short, crude rope fashioned from the used bandages, washed and dried ("Please thoroughly cleanse your hands when you're done with that," said Jarvis), the blade carefully dug out from his safety razor ("I regret to inform you that you won't be receiving a replacement," said Jarvis). 

He was tempted to hang on to them for Stark's next appearance, but reason won out. Jarvis had the control of his shock collar, and could no doubt put the squeeze on him too. Once noticed, he obediently left his makeshift weapons where he was told, and after a sleep they were always gone again, as if whisked away by some arms-dealer tooth fairy. 

He also spent a lot of time studying his new tattoos: mostly the one on his hand, which always seemed to catch the corner of his vision, a flash of foreign ink marring his body, just when he'd forgotten it was there. He considered cutting them off, one way or another, but it occurred to him that Stark would just put them right back on. Getting away had to be his first priority; cosmetics, second. 

A. E. S. 

It galled him to have these initials stamped on him, when he didn't even know what two thirds of them stood for. (Privately, he thought it might be Asshole Extraordinaire, and didn't care to find out differently.)

It galled him even more to be marked, claimed, and then left in isolation for days on end. 

"Is he going to just leave me to rot in here?" Steve asked once, of no one in particular.

Of course Jarvis chimed in immediately. "Master Stark has been quite busy attending to other matters. He'll be in to see you soon."

The next time he woke, there was a wooden box waiting for him, carved with the same "Property of..." tag that Steve bore on his skin. He lifted the lid with some trepidation, to find an array of familiar-looking toys, neatly numbered from 1-10, and sized accordingly. They were arranged on soft felt, each nestled into an indent formed exactly to its shape. There was a even a bottle of lube tucked thoughtfully into the corner.

Steve froze, lid in hand.

Jarvis was saying something about Stark's visit, but Steve tuned it out. He didn't want to know what number he was supposed to cram up his ass. It had been a few days since the terrifying experience with the collar, and he'd had time to recoup. It didn't even hurt to walk anymore. As long as he didn't think about the consequences too hard, it was easy to slam the box shut, and storm off.

Not that there was very far to go.

After stomping a few circles around the room, he came back to the box, and inspected its contents again. They were really very... detailed. 

Unlike the ones Stark had used on him in the infirmary, these had a definite color scheme to them. Red, white, and blue. 

Asshole Extraordinaire. 

"Master Stark says he still owes you a punishment for taking out your plug without permission," Jarvis piped up. "However, if you prepare yourself for him today, you'll be, in his words, "square"."

Steve did not want to be square.

He brought the box to the door, where he dumped the careful assembly out onto the carpet. Began to arrange them, with his artist's sensibilities, into a subtle, delicate piece, right where Stark would see it upon entry. Soon enough, he had the ten toys arranged to spell out the letters F, U, along with an exclamation point, using the bottle of lube as the dot.

"I can still see you," Jarvis said. He sounded a little exasperated this time.

Steve supposed that would take some of the shock out of it for Stark. But it was the best he could do with what he had. 

He spent the next few hours in a jittery defiance, that gradually deflated, when Stark never came. 

Eventually, Steve crawled into bed and fell asleep, naked back turned brazenly to the door.

When he woke, he was tied up again. Rope instead of chain, binding his wrists to the bedposts on either side of his head. He was lying flat on his back, which was new at least, chest and groin uncomfortably bare.

"I was starting to think you had a fixation with my butt," he said dryly, to mask his growing nervousness. He tested the bonds, and didn't find much give at all. At least his legs were free, he thought, and tried to to find a position that would afford him some privacy. 

"Master Stark is not available—" said Jarvis.

"Then who did this?" Steve said. 

"—but he left you this message, and this gift."

The ceiling opened up above him, to reveal a massive television screen behind it. For a moment, he stared into his own image, reflected back at him darkly. He really needed a shave.

Then Stark's face appeared, with the air of a god looking down on Steve from the heavens. He was sitting in some kind of workshop, surrounded by tools and machinery, a soldering iron pinched in his fingers. There was a welding mask pulled off his face, and what looked like a robot arm laid out in front of him, held in clamps. 

"We are not square," Stark said, gesturing with the iron. "I thought you learned your place, but sometimes it takes a couple tries before the lesson sticks, huh, Cap? Now, I hate repeating myself, can't stand it, but this guy will give you a refresher."

Steve's stomach dropped. He jerked against the headboard, and cricked his neck, looking around wildly for someone else in the room. Bad enough for Stark to use him, but to give him to someone else—

There was nobody there with him, not that he could see, but there was definitely something new. A machine squatted by the foot of the bed, about the size and form factor of an upright piano. It had a lens on the front, angled so that he felt uncomfortably like it was looking directly up his asshole. When he twisted his legs to protect himself, the the lens turned to follow. 

"Now, this isn't some PornHub dildo on a stick," Stark was saying, incomprehensibly. Maybe he wasn't even saying real words; he had gone back to soldering some exposed panel on the robot arm, and was only half paying attention to the camera. "You'll love him. Silly, show him."

"Silly?" Steve repeated in disbelief, as the piano opened up, to show not keys, but an array of... what? They looked like tubes, of various thicknesses, or maybe they were mechanical arms, like the one Stark was working on. When they lifted, with a whirring sound, they resembled nothing more than a brood of snakes rising from their nest, heads in various shapes, ranging from grabby hands to ones decidedly more phallic in nature. The camera lens that had been ogling him was one of the heads, and the thin arm it was attached to came zipping out to peer at him more closely, scanning his entire body with graceful, curious sweeps. 

"Not 'Silly'," said Stark, and Steve abruptly realized that this wasn't a recording, Stark was actually responding to him. Probably watching him too, the pervert. "CILL-E. I know you've been, what's the word, bored, under-stimulated, whatever, so I sent him to play a game with you. Jarvis, put the timer back up."

Across the top of the screen flashed the glowing timer from the first day, the same font, the same sickly green color. That didn't bode well. Steve had had several nightmares about that thing already, and didn't look forward to more.

Before he could dwell on it, there came further mechanical sounds from the machine. Several of the thicker arms came out and wound around his legs, catching him at the ankles and thighs. Steve tried to kick out against them, but they were unreasonably strong. They moved so fluidly, bending like self-directed hoses, it was a shock that they had absolutely zero give when they fixed in place. He might as well have been kicking a steel pipe. 

Giving no room for resistance, they lifted his legs until his hips and lower back left the bed. When they pushed down, they bent his legs double, pressing his knees to his chest with a terrifying pressure. Steve let out a yelp, but they didn't crush him, only threatened to, and that's where they held him, immobilized, open, terrifyingly exposed. 

"What a view," said Stark, and Steve flushed. 

"Stark," he said urgently. "Stark, don't do this. I'm sorry. Don't let this thing... Just don't. Please."

Another arm that ended in something like the nipple of a baby bottle began to caress him, groping the crease made by his joined legs, his trapped cock, his ass crack, trailing lubricant as it went. When it reached his entrance, it began to coat him with the substance there, dabbing with all the delicacy of a steam engine. Steve's hands jerked in an abortive attempt to fend off the touch, and more mechanical arms came out, chirring and squealing, to hold them down, as if the rope weren't enough. 

"Stark," Steve said again, desperate. One of the arms, ending in what looked very much like a dick, was moving purposefully between his legs. "Listen, please—"

"Fifteen minutes. If you can last that long without blowing your load, he'll stop. Instantly. No harm, no foul. Otherwise, timer resets, and you get to keep playing. See? How long this game lasts is entirely up to you."

Steve cried out, as much from the words as from sensation. The cock had found his entrance, pushing the lube arm out of the way, and was starting to nuzzle and dig in. "Please, no—"

"Just a robot fucking you in the ass. No normal person would come from that. Fifteen minutes, easy peasy."

Steve could only let out a terrified grunt, as the robot penis breached him. It was cold and smooth, inhumanly hard. It felt clinical and invasive, more like a medical procedure than a sexual act. "Please," he tried again, "don't let this thing fuck me. I'll do whatever you want."

"Fifteen minutes to show me this _isn't_ what you were made for. If you don't get off on this, if your body isn't made to be fucked, this is your chance to prove it." Stark stopped soldering abruptly, and turned to look directly into the camera. "And if it is, then stop fighting me already. I mean it. J, stop rolling—"

The screen shut off, leaving just the timer. Steve clenched and unclenched his fists, breathing heavily. This couldn't be happening to him. Stark wasn't even going to fuck him himself, he'd built a machine to do it? 

A machine that was now working its way deeper and deeper into him. It had been days since Stark had fucked him, and he'd tried to tell himself that he was exaggerating it in his memories, that full, tight sensation, the splitting agony, the absolute, overwhelming, earth-shaking pleasure. But as the thing started rocking inside of him, warming up to his flesh, making an obscene squelching motion with every thrust, Steve felt his body start to heat, start to quiver, just like he remembered. 

"No," Steve whined, unable to believe that he was being aroused by an inanimate object. The mechanical arm settled on a rhythm with metronome regularity, and each one pushed so deliciously against all his surfaces, lighting him up from the inside. His cock was hard and dripping in what felt like an instant, painting his thighs with pre-come. Soon he was shamelessly moaning, panting, using his limited movement not to try to get free, but to angle himself for every thrust, jutting his hips into the motion, seeking more of that friction. 

He knew he was supposed to be fighting the timer, holding out, but it only served to tell him how quickly he had given in. When the machine brought him to orgasm, it ground to a pause, giving him a chance to check the time, and then read it again in disbelief. Three minutes.

Three minutes had been all it took for a machine to unravel him.

As the timer reset, and the arm slurped out of him, Steve gave himself a mental slap. 

What the hell was he doing? 

Assuming that Stark's word was to be trusted, he had to keep it together. He had to hold out, had to end this. All he had to do was not come for fifteen minutes, for crying out loud. He wasn't a teenager anymore.

This resolution wavered, when a new arm came out, thicker, with a longer, wider cock on the end. Was it going to up the size every time he came? 

His hole, which was starting to feel cold and empty, welcomed the new intrusion, greedily accepting the new girth. Only a few thrusts brought his penis back to full attention, and he realized he was about to repeat the same cycle again. 

He tried to look anywhere but at his own dark reflection, laid out on the bed, helplessly fucked, but he couldn't avoid seeing it when he checked the timer. He tried to remember boring things, sad things, but his focus was interrupted by the machine's relentless motions, the rasping friction of a damn robot having its way with him. Equally intrusive images—Stark fucking him, on the cage, in the infirmary, Stark filling him just like the machine was doing now—kept sketching themselves in his mind's eye. 

He failed that time, coming with a shout, Stark's name on his lips, sweat dripping from his body, making a mess of the bed. He failed the time after that, and again, and again. 

He lost track of how many times it happened, how many eternities he spent lying there. 

Eventually he'd be so fucked out that he wouldn't be able to come anymore, he thought, in one of his rare moments of clarity, after another orgasm had been wrenched from him. His ass was getting incredibly sore, and the thing inside him hurt so badly, he couldn't even imagine being aroused by it. There was nothing left in him to ejaculate. He was sure he'd make this time, he just had to put up with the pain.

But then the machine entered him again. Somehow, as every time before, it awakened something in him, his cock filled again, a heat suffusing his every limb, and even the pain began to feel good. 

He couldn't surrender to a machine. He had just come, so many times, he could hold out just this once.

He made it into the last minute this time, before he came again, sobbing brokenly. It hurt so much, he couldn't go through it again. But he hadn't been able to hold it, and the timer pitilessly reset. 

"Ooh, so close." Stark appeared on the ceiling again, watching him with interest. "You know, this is taking a lot longer than I expected. But it's not enough, is it? You're fucked out of your head, and it's still not enough for a little slut like you."

"Stark, please," Steve begged, as the machine whirred between his legs. "Please stop, please, I promise I won't fight you." Stark was a human (technically), he had his limits. Steve was sure that this machine could hold him here for an eternity, never tiring, never stopping. His body would disintegrate before the machine so much as faltered.

Stark didn't acknowledge him, except to tap an invisible button in the air. Music started playing, some sort of fanfare that was strangely familiar. "Got you some entertainment, since it looks like you'll be here for a while."

Stark's face disappeared, to be replaced with a familiar round shield, painted in primary colors. His shield. It spun through the air and was caught on one gloved fist, before the camera panned out. 

Oh god. 

It was his old Captain America propaganda videos. Why was Stark playing _this_ of all things?

"Found something neat in archives, and had the boys in PR spin this up. They really enjoyed cutting the footage, I'll tell you."

The intro finished, and Steve realized that it wasn't his old videos after all. No, the footage that Stark described was all new. 

His first day, jerking himself off desperately on the carpet the second he had a chance, grinding his ass into the carpet. 

Strapped to a hospital bed, Stark's cock buried in his mouth, bulging obscenely through his cheek. 

And just now, him being fucked by this machine, whimpering, begging, crying out. He hadn't even known he'd been making those noises, he'd been so out of his mind.

All to the inappropriately cheerful theme song the war commission had invented for him.

"You're still famous, you know?" Stark said, when the video ended. "Maybe I'll release these new commercials to the porn sites. Give people an update on what their hero is up to these days?"

Steve wasn't far gone enough that he couldn't feel shame and horror. That his body would be subjected to this was one thing. The idea that his reputation could go through the same treatment was more than he could bear. "Don't," he croaked, "Stark, please don't, I'm begging you."

"Still care about that sterling reputation, huh? We'll see. Maybe keep that in mind, next time you think about disobeying." 

Stark cut out, but the video looped, and restarted. As the machine fucked into him, he watched Stark fucking him in third person, and sobbed. There was something so humiliating and arousing about watching that man on the screen violated. Watching Stark plow into that prone body, over and over, ripping every last ounce of enjoyment from it, with no care for the person, the hero, it had once been. 

Watching himself treated like a piece of meat, feeling the machine continuously using his hole, Steve sank deeper and deeper. Stark was right. This was all he was good for. Here was video evidence. It didn't matter what he felt. If even a machine wanted to ravage his body for its pleasure, he mattered even less than a metal box of wires. He was nothing, he only existed to be fucked. He'd submit to whatever was in store for him. 

Eventually, to his surprise, the machine stopped.

There had been so much motion that stillness felt wrong. His first thought wasn't relief, but devastation. He was at the end of the cycle, so achingly hard, pressure building in his balls—but the timer chose this moment to run out. Humiliatingly, he began to rock himself against the machine, chasing one last orgasm. He was so close, he was sure another few thrusts would have sent him over the edge. But he was still pinned in place, and found no relief in the tiny movements he could manage. 

It was this state of desperation that Stark found him in, when he finally arrived.

"Oh, I like that look on you," he smirked. "You don't even want me to take it out of you, do you? You want me to turn it back on. Even it means another round of this. Even if it keeps going for days."

Steve sobbed. Days. He knew he couldn't take that. But he was also so desperate for release. 

"I'll tell you what. If you beg for it, I might just help you out," Stark said. 

He didn't even need to finish the sentence, and Steve was already begging, "Please, finish me, please, I need it."

"No," Stark said. "Not that. Beg me to use you."

Steve was too far gone for shame. He begged to be used. Every nasty, degrading thing he could remember Stark saying to him spilled from his mouth until he was inventing them himself, things that didn't even make sense.

Fortunately, Stark didn't need much persuading. He patted the machine with the familiarity of a pet, "Come on, CILL-E, let me through," and the robot arms eased, letting go of his legs, unwinding from him to give Stark space to crawl through. As soon as his legs hit the bed, Steve began to squirm, trying to get friction on his cock, but Stark sat on top of his chest, pinning him in place.

Soon enough, Stark's hand was behind his head, lifting him up, and Stark's dick was in his face. A few strokes took him to full erection, and Steve willingly opened his mouth for it, sucked it right in. 

"I love you fucked out of your mind like this. A couple hours ago, you would've bitten me, wouldn't you? You would've fought me tooth and nail. Now here you are, gagging for it."

Steve whimpered in humiliation, acknowledgement. He needed to come so badly he would have agreed to anything. 

If Stark had wanted a serious blowjob, Steve would have put in the effort, would have sucked and licked to the best of his abilities, though he'd never done it before, and only had the foggiest idea of how. Anything, to get the hand on his raging erection that he so desperately needed. 

But Stark didn't care to use his mouth, only pushed all the way down, and all Steve had to do was focus on not gagging as Stark began to roughly fuck his throat. 

In his aroused state, the thought of it was unbearably hot. Knowing that he was just a vessel for Stark to fuck, that Stark would take whatever he wanted from him, even if it choked him, even if it hurt him.

His eyes snapped open, and the realization hit him just a few seconds before his orgasm did. As Stark rammed into him, gagging him, springing tears to his eyes, Steve gave a muffled cry, and came, with Stark's cock stuffed down his throat.

Stark swore and pulled out, an expression of shock, then smugness, crossing over his face. A few more rapid strokes, and he was coming on to Steve's face, coating his mouth and nose with his seed. Steve tried to turn his face away, but there was no avoiding it, and no hiding what he'd done.

"After all that," said Stark slowly, rubbing his erection over Steve's face, smearing the come everywhere. "Running on empty. And just being used was enough to get you off. You really can't tell me you weren't made for this now."

Steve shut his eyes.

He knew that this latest performance was going on those videos too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used:  
> Day 15: Science Gone Wrong  
> Day 16: Forced to Beg  
> Day 17: Blackmail
> 
> Might be a stretch for day 15. Is a fucking machine science? ~~Or is it an art?~~


	6. Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very little sexual content in this chapter. Because that's a thing I warn for now, apparently.

Eventually, Stark must have deemed him trained. 

Trained enough, anyway, to sleep in Stark's bed. Lie a night beside his unconscious, snoring captor, without attempting to harm him, or kick off his covers, or making a bid for freedom. 

Trained.

The worst part was, Steve couldn't argue with that assessment. 

Yes, his arms and legs were tied, but the fact that Stark had even bothered did little to soothe his ego. 

That shouldn't be enough to stop him, he reflected, lying on his side, staring out listlessly into the dark bedroom—or at least what passed for darkness, in this day and age. Even now, in the middle of the night, there were so many strange lights blinking, on the ceiling, on Stark's cluttered tables, on the outlets on the walls.

His hands weren't even bound behind him, but resting at his stomach. Not attached to any furniture. No one watching him. 

Compared to his normal state, he was practically free. 

He could certainly do _something_ , and he should. What sane person would just lie here and wait for more abuse come morning? 

Slowly, he began to curl his knees to his chest, drawing his ankles up to his bound hands. Sweat pricked on his shoulders as he concentrated on moving with utter care, so as not to shift the bed. 

Stark's snoring hitched briefly, and Steve froze, heart hammering in his throat. He waited until it resumed before he began to fumble with the knot on his ankles, hasty now, like he could outrun Stark waking up. It was difficult to see in the dark, but he managed to dig a fingernail into the tight knot, and begin to tease it free—

Behind him, a weight shifted. With surprising speed Stark's arm snaked over him, hand falling on his, hard. 

Oh no. No, no, no. 

Just the thought of what punishment Stark would invent this time was enough to make him break out in a full sweat. The lights flooded on, and he was momentarily blinded, but he doubted he would have been able to see in his terror anyway.

"It's late," Stark said, muzzily, and Steve didn't even dare to breathe. "I've slept like three hours in the past three days. I'm going to pretend I didn't just see what I thought I saw."

Pathetically grateful, Steve nodded vigorously against his pillow. 

"If," Stark tapped the headboard, and a metal hook popped out, unsheathing itself from a featureless wood panel like a cat's claw emerging from its pad, "and only if, you behave." 

The hook was right in front of Steve's face. Shiny, metal, ominously thick. Steve glanced down and saw that a corresponding one had appeared on the footboard. What kind of pervert slept in a bed like this? 

"Arms," Stark said, impatient, pulling at Steve's, the one he was still holding captive. The gesture tugged at the short rope joining Steve's wrists. 

He was expecting Steve to hook it to the headboard, hanging himself up like a garment. 

It didn't take a genius to figure out what the second hook was for. Once he put his ankles over it, he was sure he'd be held taut between them, the line of his naked body stretched out and vulnerable to whatever Stark chose to do with it. 

Chained to my bed, Stark had said. Used. 

The words rose to Steve's mind unbidden, like a floating corpse breaking the surface of the water. Steve's thought process stuttered on the image. "You don't need to do that," he said, urgent. "I... I won't do it again, honest. Just go back to sleep—" 

"Just shut it." Stark's hand ground down. "Not in the mood." Steve's wrist couldn't have been described as delicate by any measure, not since the serum, but he felt the bones in his arm squeeze, a physical reminder of the precarious position he was in. Stark could easily snap those bones if he chose, and then hang Steve up anyway—and if Steve struggled against it, all he'd get was shocked or choked for trying.

"You know what?" Stark rolled out of bed, yawning. "Gag yourself. In the nightstand. Then the hooks, like a good boy, and then go back to sleep, for crying out loud." 

Confident that he'd be obeyed, padded off to the bathroom, swiping his palm tiredly over his face as went. 

Steve wanted to prove him wrong, but his body had been through so much abuse in such few days, and practically begged him to comply. Shakily, he leaned over and fumbled in the indicated drawer with his bound wrists. The closest thing he could find to a gag was a short length of leather strap—which, as he pulled it out, turned out to be two lengths of strap, joined in the middle by a silver ring, about the size of a pried-opened mouth. 

He knew what this was for. 

If Stark thought he was putting that in his own mouth—

There came the sound of a toilet flush, and Steve flinched. Without conscious input from his brain, he put it in his own mouth, even held it clenched between his teeth and groped with his bound hands to fasten it. He somehow managed to thread the buckle just as Stark got back, and something of his desperate efforts must have pleased the man. 

"Here, sweetheart." Stark took the straps from him and finished the job, pulling just a little too tight for it not to be malice. 

This was it, Steve thought, whimpering around the intrusion. Fingers reached into his mouth, stroking down the length of his tongue just because they could, just because Steve couldn't close his mouth against them. 

But then Stark pulled back. 

Flopped onto his side of the bed, and pulled the covers up over himself. "Arms and legs," he yawned, waving vaguely. "Like a good boy."

Steve hesitated. He could still take the gag out, could still... what? Fighting here wasn't worth it.

Defeated, he wormed down on the bed until he could loop his bound ankles over the hook, where they caught unpleasantly. His arms, he stretched over his head, reaching blindly until felt his wrists catch as well. As soon as he was in place, the hooks tightened. He watched the one between his feet pull back into the panel, holding his bound ankles firmly in place, and imagined the other one doing the same above his head. 

There was still a little slack in his body—at least until Stark grabbed around the middle, hands none too gentle against his naked belly, and reeled him in, bending him like a bow.

Shortly, Stark fell asleep. 

Steve couldn't.

With his mouth forced open like this, he'd fully expected it to be put to use. The anticipation was, somehow, worse. 

He didn't get much sleep that night, jaw aching, his rapist clutching him around the middle like a teddy bear. Knowing full well what would happen to him in the morning. 

Knowing, and holding still for it, because he knew he'd gotten off easy this time, and a part of him felt lucky. 

He must have drifted off at some point, because he woke to feel Stark's obvious hard-on pressed between the cleft of his butt, Stark's wandering hands groping up and down his chest, teasing at the sensitive flesh of his nipple. 

"Come say good morning," Stark murmured into his ear, thrusting his erection against Steve's crack, and he shuddered. 

There was nowhere for Steve to go, and it was Stark who slid over, pulling himself into a sitting position as he did so. When he was close enough, he pulled Steve's head into his lap, and waited expectantly. 

It was an uncomfortable position, his limbs pulled to one side, his head turned to the other, but Steve managed to swivel his mouth away, so that the cock prodded against his cheek instead, warm and springy.

"You know this is going in one way or another," Stark said. With a few hours of sleep in him, he seemed chipper, amused rather than irritated at this show of resistance. "Don't make me do airplane noises."

He put both hands on Steve's face, and guided him down onto the waiting cock. Steve squirmed helplessly as it filled his mouth, hating that he was held open like this, like he was just a receptacle for dick. Stark didn't thrust into him, just moved his head up and down manually, forcing him to fuck his own throat against it, gagging himself with each bob. 

"It's kinda cute though," Stark mused, head thrown back, eyes shut with pleasure as he masturbated with Steve's head. "Who knows, maybe I'll miss the resistance, once I've broken it out of you."

He finished with a grunt, and relaxed there, still holding Steve down, nose pressed into his pubes. After a few minutes, he pulled Steve off and cast him off to the side, leaving there to choke on the taste of sweat and come. 

He disappeared into the bathroom, and returned shaved, dressed, and excited. "That does remind me. I still owe you one more punishment, don't I? For trying to run away, back on day one? You really shouldn't have done that."

Dread flooded Steve's limbs, and he muffled a protest into the pillow.

"Don't worry, I have something special all ready for you."

Steve held perfectly still, like prey, as Stark untied him, and bore it when Stark ran an appreciative hand over the rope grain imprinted there, an artwork he was especially proud of. 

When Stark whistled, Steve crawled after him, face burning with humiliation, too cowed not to. 

They didn't go far, just across the floor, to some kind of reception room. There was a bar built into one end, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows on the other. There should have been tables and chairs set up, or maybe a dance floor, but instead the only furniture was a fixture in the center of the room that looked strangely out of place. Something like an angular bathtub, with thick walls fixing it to the floor. Or a coffin.

Steve really didn't like the look of this. 

Especially when Stark whistled again, and pointed into it. 

He wasted a moment deliberating with himself, but it wasn't so much that had run out of choices—he had never even had one to start with, not since he'd arrived in this bleak future. If anything, it was either crawl in himself, or be tortured and then dragged in there. He honestly didn't know which was worse.

Utterly defeated, he got into the coffin, telling himself that there was nothing left that hadn't already been done to him, no humiliation or pain he had left to suffer. 

There were grooves at the bottom that seemed tailored to his measurements, and he turned over on his back so he could put his arms and legs into them. The space was tiny, the walls pressing at his elbows, the bottoms of his heels. There was an elevated platform under his head, so he could stare down at his own naked body stretched out.

That meant he saw the manacles spring out and snap over his arms and legs. 

"I wasn't—" Steve hissed, as he instinctively struggled against them, and the hard edges dug into his skin. "It's not like I was going anywhere. Isn't this a little over the top?"

Stark wasn't even paying attention to him. He had gone to the bar, and gotten himself a glass. 

"I want you to know I tailor these punishments for you personally," he said over his shoulder, reaching for liquor on a high shelf.

A touch on Steve's skin startled him into looking back down. A sheet was being drawn over him, from the feet up. It was the first time his bare skin had been covered since he'd woken. The material felt both rough and slippery at once as it slid over his skin.

"For attacking me," Stark came back with a bottle and the glass, "the whip. You got off light on that one, honestly." 

He sat down on the edge of the coffin, and pulled the top from the bottle with his teeth, spat it onto the floor. "For taking out my plug, and not preparing yourself for me—you got prepared for me. That was just kind of fair, you know?"

Fair? Steve couldn't hold back a snort. What was Stark going to do? Punish him for it?

"And now, for trying to run away." Stark held up the empty glass like a toast. "I'm going to remind you where you'd be without me."

"Where would that be?" Steve snapped, just as nozzles opened along the sides of the coffin. 

There came a rattling sound, and then a rush of something heavy and cold pouring over his covered body. 

Even through the sheet, the shock of ice hit his legs and chest like a wave slapping into him, drowning him, pulling him under. 

Immediately he was plunged right back into the ocean depths, into the freezing senseless dark, and as he began to struggle and thrash, the water resisted movement, resisted even the possibility of movement, he might as well have been buried in _stone_ —

"That's where you'd be," Stark's voice cut through the memory, and Steve surfaced with a gasp. 

He opened his eyes to see that he was still lying there in that coffin, that there were ice cubes clattering in from the sides of it, smothering his body in a quilt of glistening white crystal, freezing and burning him at once all over. 

"No," Steve breathed, and he swore he could see it fogging in front of his face. He tried to sit up, tried to push it off of himself, couldn't. There was just just enough give that he rattled the ice. Not enough that he could so much as shift a single cube. 

He was trapped, again, he couldn't feel his body, he was going to freeze again, and this time it would be with Stark sitting there not a half a foot away, looking on with interest. 

"Stark, please, no. You don't understand, I can't, not this. Anything but this, please, I'm begging you, please—"

"Oh, I understand." Stark dipped his glass into the ice, and scooped up a few cubes from Steve's body. Poured his liquor over it, nice and slow. "Do you?" 

"Stark," Steve whimpered, actually whimpered. His teeth were chattering, his body starting to shiver under the cold assault. The ice was getting heavy, inches thick all over him, arms, neck, everywhere, and showed no sign of stopping. He was going to be buried alive. He was going to freeze all over again, and the nothingness that awaited was an old acquaintance that had never left him, but only waited there, patiently, with arms yawning wide open, ready to receive him.

Stark calmly took a sip of his drink, eyes as cold as the cubes that continued to fall. 

"I pulled you out of the ice once, and believe me, it wasn't cheap. If I think you've learned your lesson, I'll get you out of here again. But believe me when I tell you this—I will _not_ be doing it a third time."

"I've learned my lesson," Steve said instantly. It was already so cold, unbearably cold, and there was no reprieve, no matter how he twisted and squirmed. He felt like his very sanity was slipping from him as he writhed, breath coming from his mouth in short, sharp pants. "I've learned my lesson, please, please."

No response.

Of course there wouldn't be.

No one had been there to help him before, either. He'd gone down alone, leaving everyone behind, and this was the hellish afterlife that had found him. 

Tears spilled from his eyes, molten hot against the chill of his skin. When they stopped flowing, the tracks began to freeze too.

The ice didn't cease until it covered him up to the chin. Steve struggled to keep his face out of it, and it fell against his bare throat, chilly and wet. His body had stopped shivering, and he knew distantly that was a bad sign. There was a drowsiness nagging at the back of his brain, and it terrified him as much as it tempted him, to just fall into it, to surrender. 

There was the clink of glass, as Stark set his bottle down. "Jarvis, vitals?"

Steve's eyes opened, tried to focus. Stark was reading something in front of him that only he could see, and he began to swipe his free hand in the air, as if paging through a giant, invisible book. 

"Stark," said Steve, words slurred even to his own ears. "I, I understand what you're trying to tell me. Please, please stop this."

"I'm no doctor, but you should keep," Stark said finally, and leaned over to pat him on the cheek. Steve's body temperature must have already fallen several degrees. Stark's hand scalded his skin, like a hot iron. "Face it, you've been through worse."

As he got up, and drained the last of his drink, Steve made one last desperate plea, with a voice that was already failing. "Please, let me out, and I'll do whatever you want. I won't fight you, ever again. Fuck me, whip me, whatever you want, please, I'll do it willingly, just get me out of here."

On his way to the door, Stark turned, and gave him an incredulous look. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, and flipped the lights on his way out. "You'll do that anyway." 

In the settling dark, the coffin felt every bit as claustrophobic as the cockpit of that doomed plane. 

Steve was sure his body was shutting down. In the numbing cold, he felt weightless, like his plane was plummeting down to Earth and he was at zero-g within. It might have happened years ago, it might have been centuries ago for all he knew, but for him it hadn't even been weeks. He'd been a hero, he'd had a life, he'd had Peggy, and Bucky, and then there was ice, and then, nothing.

He'd never have that last dance with Peggy. 

He'd never be able to prove that Buck was still alive, somewhere, like his heart was telling him—if he'd survived the train, he was surely dead now, of old age, just like Peggy, just like everyone else from that time. 

If they could see him now. Submitting to Stark. Begging to be fucked. Lost, mindless with terror, praying to be released just so he could go back to being a sex toy, anything but this—

"There you are," came a voice, smooth and liquid, though it didn't seem to pass through his ears at all. 

It was the same one he'd heard on his first day, when he'd woken up in the infirmary. Another hallucination, conjured by his dying brain?

"I lost sight of you for a while. You must have been somewhere warm."

"Warm?" said Steve, or tried to. He wasn't sure if anything came out. 

"Not a fan. Easier for me to reach you like this."

"Like... this," Steve repeated. Like... cold? 

"You've suffered, though, haven't you? The man of iron is as hard on his toys as he is on his enemies."

"Who are you?" It seemed important to ask. 

"You don't remember? Why, I'm hurt."

"I... I heard you. After I woke up, from being frozen. And now, here. Frozen again. Are you... What are you? An ice... spirit?"

Laughter echoed in his head, flooding the crevices of his brain. It wasn't a kind laugh, but Steve welcomed the distraction regardless.

"Oddly appropriate," said the voice. "You may call me that, if you wish. Ice... Prince, let's say. You've caught my interest."

"Then help me," Steve said, without reservation. "If you've been watching," and the corresponding swell of humiliation was nearly enough to heat him, "you know I have no shame left. I'll do anything you want, literally anything, just get me out of here."

"I'm afraid that's beyond my power... yet." The voice dropped to a whisper. "But as the Ice Prince, the cold is certainly in my domain. It's not real, you know? The cold."

It felt very real to him.

"You feel as though you're burning alive, do you not? From the ice?"

That was exactly how it felt, as little sense as it made. He nodded, weakly, the movement pushing a few ice cubes away from his chin. Others fell in to replace them.

"Utter nonsense. That's your body tricking you. It's just an illusion." The voice settled in around his head, curling around it like an animal. "Cold doesn't _burn_. It numbs you. Slows you. Soothes you, if you let it. So let it."

"I don't understand," Steve gritted. "Can you help me, or not?" 

The last time he'd let the ice soothe him, he'd woken up to this. What kind of nightmarish reality would he find if he succumbed again?

"Don't fight it," said the voice. The prince. "Ice can't hurt you. Far from it, ice can only rescue you from the pain."

Like an ice pack, Steve thought. Like his mother's cool hands on his bruised flesh. 

"That's it," the voice purred, as Steve drifted, a familiar sensation. 

"We'll meet someday, this I promise you. Until then, sleep well."

Slowly, Steve let his eyelids fall shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used:  
> Day 18: Phobias  
> Day 19: Grief & Mourning Loved One  
> Day 20: Lost  
> Day 21: Hypothermia


	7. Nat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the kind feedback - much appreciated!
> 
> Please note the new tags today (including the added relationship tags).

From the cold, frozen darkness, Steve surfaced, briefly, to heat. 

Sweat dripping down his scalp and spine, plastering his hair to his head. 

A rough hand, nearly large enough to engulf both his wrists, pinning them down over his head. A second pressing down on the back of his skull, smothering his face into the the soft, sweat-damp surface beneath him. 

A heavy weight bearing down on his legs, and a searing pain between them, as he was coarsely and thoroughly penetrated. 

He wanted to cry out, to at least turn to look at his unseen assailant, but his struggles were weak and ineffectual. The body caging his made no reaction, might not even have noticed his attempts. 

Exhaustion quickly took him, dragged him back down. He faded, even as the rocking, ravaging sensation went on. 

It was like that every time he woke. Brief snatches of awareness, body thrown into a different position each time, fucked at a different angle. Was it all one interminable session, or had he been in this limbo for the eternity that it felt like? 

It seemed like every time he came to, Stark was on top of him, using one of his orifices, or fondling his body, or sometimes hurting him, for no particular reason he could tell, slapping his face until his head rang, his ass until it radiated with its own heat and was unbearably tender against the fucking that followed. 

Except.

One time he woke to a cock in his ass, as usual, and something didn't add up. He could see Stark sitting there in front of him, playing with his phone. They were back in the infirmary. A nurse passed behind Stark's chair, trying to pretend she wasn't looking. 

But how could Stark be sitting there, when he was currently buried hilt-deep inside Steve, gripping him around the rib cage with gouging fingers? It made no sense.

Steve must have made a noise, because Stark looked up. Smiled fondly, watching him get fucked. 

Fucked by some person, who wasn't Stark. 

Some totally unknown person.

It occurred to Steve, with a sharp, cold slap of shock, that he had no idea who had been using his body all this time, if it wasn't Stark. 

That it could be multiple men, hundreds of them for all he knew, helping themselves to his unconscious flesh. 

Steve tried to lift his head to look, but his neck was too weak to support it, and he only sagged back down on the hospital bed. 

Casually, Stark reached over to a machine, and turned a dial. Liquid flowed into a clear tube, and towards Steve. Steve tried to follow it, but the drugs moved faster than his gaze. Before he could figure out where it was inserted into him, he went right back under again.

"So like I was saying—" Stark said, over his head, but he didn't hear the rest. 

Another time he woke alone, but aching in a way that told him that Stark had recently been—or no, he realized, it might not have been Stark at all, it might have been anyone. 

All sorts of strange men had fucked him, whose faces he didn't know, whose number he had no way to count. 

Somehow for all that he had suffered, this violation was worse, that he didn't even know what had been done to him, while he was utterly helpless and unaware. He curled up with a whimper, sore body moving slowly, foreignly, like it wasn't used to obeying him anymore.

By this point, anyone he ran into in these halls, on the street, might have used his ass, his mouth, and he wouldn't have the slightest clue of it. 

In this rare moment of wakefulness, he tried to take stock. He was in a hospital bed, in an infirmary. It looked like the same one from that first day, so he was right back where he had started this nightmare. He wasn't strapped down this time, but the thought of getting up, trying to make a break for it, terrified him down to his core. 

If he stayed here, he'd be raped again, an unknown number of times, by an unknown number of people, all while he was completely oblivious.

But if he tried to escape again, and Stark caught him—

Maybe this was right. To be an inanimate body, a possession, an object. He was Stark's fucktoy. It didn't matter if he wanted it or not, if he was conscious or not. He wore Stark's collar, his brand. What other mark of ownership could there be? Stark could do whatever he wanted with him. Take his air. Take his consciousness. Fuck him while he was out, or whore him to others. Even if he was too injured to serve his purpose awake, his senseless body was all Stark needed from him. His current state was proof enough.

Like some kind of detective, he reached down between his legs. His dick was hard from the recent use, precome drying all over his belly, seeking relief. With some trepidation, he touched between his ass cheeks, and found his entrance inflamed and sore, still dripping with someone's spend. 

Whose? Multiple people? 

He had no idea. 

He dipped his fingers inside, and the entrance gave easily for him, letting another gush of come flood out over his hand. He could easily imagine these faceless hordes having their way with his limp, unresisting body. Pumping their seed into him, and then leaving him here, hard, wanting, and none the wiser. 

Before he knew it, he had three fingers inside, working furiously, their way slicked by the come of anonymous men. It wasn't long before he brought himself to a shameful orgasm, and came with a hoarse shout. 

When he opened his eyes, there was a nurse staring at him, a pair of gloves in hand, a blush high on her cheeks.

Steve yanked his fingers out of his ass like she might not have noticed them yet, horror and shame drawing a corresponding blush to him, all over his naked body.

"Don't let me interrupt," said the nurse, giggling nervously. Steve wanted to die. "It's just, your IV got knocked out by your last, ah, visitor. The sedatives, you know..."

"You were watching," Steve realized. "You've been watching all these times." 

She would know better than he did, how many times he'd been taken. How, and by whom.

"Only on my shifts," she said, putting on her gloves, and the plural made Steve's stomach sink. Multiple shifts, which meant he'd been kept here for days at least, drifting in and out of consciousness as his body was used, visited like a public john.

"I don't think anyone could have seen all of it, except maybe head nurse. Honestly, she could have discharged you by now, but I think she likes to watch."

She held up the end of the IV expectantly, and Steve shuddered.

Inside that needle was unconsciousness. It was days or weeks more of rape, with no hope of escape, because he wouldn't even be awake for it. No matter what, he couldn't let her put that back in him. 

But fighting back was equally unthinkable. Whatever he thought he'd suffered so far, he was now convinced that Stark could always come up with worse. Genius ran in the family, it seemed, but in different directions. 

The warring instincts inside him eventually turned into a stalemate of inaction. That meant he didn't struggle at all when she gripped his arm. Turned it over, and stuck the needle into the crook of his elbow, before carefully taping it down. 

"I'll get you cleaned up," she said after, gingerly patting his bare shoulder.

He realized that his hand was still sticky with come. Anonymous come. 

Disgusted, he tried to keep his eyes open for the cleaning, but he never even felt her set down his arm.

"Something's not right," someone was saying, the next time Steve washed up against the shore of consciousness. 

There was a cock in his mouth, musky and pervasive. It was an unpleasantly jarring way to wake up, but one that he was quickly getting used to. Steve almost bit down, except a deep-seated instinct told him that doing so would have equally unpleasant consequences. 

"Hm?" came a voice, a feminine voice, from behind. It didn't seem to match up with the sensation of a thick length rocking into him, splitting him apart with each push. 

"I think he's starting to wake up, Nat," said the guy in front of him. "He's _looking_ at me."

Steve wasn't really looking at anything, because his eyes wouldn't focus. He had the vague impression of blurry skin, inches from his face. Squinting, he finally managed to make out a lean torso, chiseled six-pack, and a tattoo running along the hip, like an arrow, firing from a crossbow. 

"What's the matter?" said Nat, breathing in time to her thrusts. "Can't enjoy your meal if it's staring at you?"

"He's never been awake for this before," said the man. It was the word "before" that sent chills down Steve's spine. How many times had been taken by this man, and never even known it? "I don't know, it's weird."

Without warning, the hard length slid out of Steve's ass. He hadn't felt it going in, but it was an uncomfortable scrape on its way out, leaving him cold and empty. 

A beautiful woman came into view, shoulders back to display a perfect, shapely set of naked breasts, her hips similarly angled to show off a prominent strap-on penis, in bright purple, still shiny with lube. Steve's ass clenched at the realization of what had been inside of him. 

Somewhere deep down, his last spark of modesty still cringed at the idea of being seen like this—naked, lips distended around a cock—by a lady. 

But that she had a cock of her own, even a plastic one—his modesty didn't know what to make of that.

There was a condom on it, that she slipped off and tossed with a flick. Then she weaved out of view, each measured step making the strap-on between her legs swing with grace and menace. 

When she came back, she was holding up two hands. One had a strip of black fabric dangling from it. The other held a syringe. 

"Which will it be?" She lifted a sculpted eyebrow. 

Sighing, the man pushed Steve's face off of his crotch, and backed up. His penis emerged like a magic trick, and flicked Steve in the nose, leaving a string of his own saliva. 

He walked up to the woman, Nat, and plucked the syringe from her hand. Steve felt like weeping, but the man just set it down somewhere out of sight, and made a sweeping invitation with his hand. "Go on then."

Nat came over to Steve with the blindfold, and smiled down at him. The cupid's bow of her lips was plush and full, redder than anything he'd ever seen. She could have been a pin-up model, except for the artificial dick bobbing from her hips, a bright purple monstrosity hovering right in front of his face.

"You're doing so good," she said, brushing his sweaty hair from his forehead. Steve couldn't help but lean into the touch, the praise. "I'm just going to put this on you so Clint doesn't feel _weird_. That okay with you, big guy?" 

As she spoke, she threaded the purple tip of her cock into Steve's mouth, and he took it delicately, wrapping his lips around it. It tasted of plastic, clean and artificial, and was still warm. From his own ass, he realized. 

"That's it," she murmured, "Nice and slow. You take care of ours, mine and his, and we'll take care of yours when we're done with you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Cock filling his mouth, Steve could do nothing but groan around it, which seemed like answer enough. After she gave a couple slow, careful snaps of her hips, gently fucking his mouth with it, he closed his eyes. She tied the blindfold over them, checking thoroughly for gaps, tugging the fabric in place. 

Being blind should have been a step up from being unconscious, but Steve still felt his breath quicken at having his sense of vision cut off, at not being able to see these two people in front of him, what what they intended to do with him.

When Clint drawled, "See?" his voice came from somewhere behind Steve. Close, too close. "When he's out, you don't have to talk to him. It's easier." 

A pair of calloused hands on his ass, spreading his cheeks, was all the warning he got, before Clint sank his dick into his entrance, plunging in smooth and sure. 

Steve gave a strangled cry around Nat's strap-on, but held himself back from moving, from fighting it. Resistance would get him nowhere.

"I think he's kind of sweet," said Nat, cupping his face on another thrust, so that she could feel the bulge of her cock through the wall of his cheek. 

He melted into it, despite himself. Don't punish me, he tried to project, with every fiber of his being. He was utterly exhausted from the terror, and the fruitless struggles, and the pain. A kind touch like this, not being hurt for just a brief moment, was all he wanted.

"Have I told you recently, Nat?" said Clint, between thrusts.

"Hm?"

"How much you terrify me."

Steve could imagine those full lips quirking upwards; he could hear the smile in her voice as she spoke down to him, in a confiding tone, "Don't worry. Tony's not done with you yet, and he doesn't normally share. Me and Clint, we're his family, is all."

It wasn't like he could respond, with the intrusion in his mouth. If he could have, he might have asked, "Who's Tony?"

As Clint fucked him from behind, Nat thrust into his throat, the two of them perfectly in sync, as if used to working together. She deeper with each push, working his throat open, until he was gagging on it. 

"You can't breathe, can you?" she observed, drawing back just slightly so he could suck in some air. He trembled, waiting, and she patted his hair again. "It's okay. I'm going to go in deeper. You just relax your throat and take it."

She delved into him again, suffocating him. His body started to buck upwards, but Clint's hand from behind pushed down on his back, forcing him down. 

Steve's arms were still free, but even as he flailed them, he held back from trying to push these people off of him. His body was crying out for air, he wanted more than anything to grab the intrusion cutting him off, but he knew he couldn't, he knew it would bring him a world of pain if he tried to push this woman away, and so he just took it, choking and groaning. 

"There," the woman sighed, drawing back again. "You want to be good for me, don't you? But you don't know what to do with your hands?"

Steve was still sucking in air greedily through his nose. Was he really expected to answer that? He let out a cross between a gasp and a moan.

"Put them behind your back. Lace your fingers. Good. Keep them clasped like that, and don't let go, no matter what. There's a good boy."

Clint slapped his joined hands, and Steve flinched, but didn't unclasp them.

"Hold for me, just like that."

Steve knew what was going to happen before she even did it, but there was no way to prepare. Her hips shifted, expertly, and then he was choking again, and he soundlessly sobbed against it. He wanted desperately to fight back. He thought he could push her off, get a brief suck of air before he was dragged back down, punished in whatever way these sadistic bastards could come up with. 

But terror stopped him short. 

He'd been told to clasp his hands behind his back and so he did it, hanging on against every instinct in his body that told him to fight for air, for life. 

Clint had resumed fucking his ass, and he had never felt so stuffed full at both ends, like he could just burst, but he had to endure it. He couldn't fight. He couldn't resist, that would only bring pain and suffering. 

If he submitted, obeyed, if he was good enough, if he could just hold on—

The pressure finally eased, and he gasped in air, choking and coughing, never letting go of his hands. 

He felt like he had just escaped death, but Clint behind him showed no signs of caring, even picked up the pace. 

"There's a good boy," said Nat, stroking his bulging cheek again. The fabric of his blindfold was wet with tears. "I knew you could do it."

"Goddamn, Nat," said Clint, just before he came with a groan. Then: "God. Damn."

"Take another deep breath," said Nat, sweetly, to Steve. "We're going again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used:  
> Day 22: Drugged  
> Day 23: Exhaustion  
> Day 24: Blindfolded  
> Day 25: Disorientation


	8. Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Monday. In your heart. 

When Steve was finally released from the infirmary, he went, without being told, on his hands and knees. 

Something had changed, and Stark knew it with a glance. 

In the days that followed, there was no more being strapped to strange machines, or being threatened with the shock collar, or even being bound while he was fucked. 

Stark just took what he wanted, and Steve found no fight left in him, no strength to deny a single command, and risk the consequences.

He tried to tell himself that he was biding his time. Waiting for his captor to lower his defenses. 

But the truth of the matter was this: as the days wore on, as he willingly submitted to orders ever more humiliating and grotesque, freedom seemed less like a burning goal, and more like a distant and quaint memory. Being his own person—he could hardly even imagine such a thing, after all that he'd done, all that he'd allowed to be done to him. Did he even have the right anymore, to deny any demand put on him, to refuse any access to his body, when he'd already said yes to so much?

That was how he found himself entertaining Stark's friends on game night. Because even rapists had friends. He didn't know what kind of game was on, because his back was to the gigantic, movie-theater sized screen, his body occupied with other matters.

From the very start, he was pulled into the lap of a large, burly man, head crushed against the prominent bulge there, making an acquaintance with his crotch before he'd gotten more than a glimpse of his face. Even through the thick material of his jeans, Steve could feel every inch of the erection there, hard and scalding as hot metal, in a proportion that made his ass clench and his mouth go dry. 

He whined a half-hearted protest as the member was drawn out and rubbed all over his face, marking him all over with its musky scent, like some kind of animal. He had the sinking suspicion that this cock had already had its way with him, many times over, while he was drugged and unaware. 

He suspected this because of the familiar faces in the room: Nat, perched on the arm of the same couch, sipping from a glass, and Clint sat a ways off aloof and distant. The sight of their faces hit Steve like a sucker punch, and he could almost smell the clinical scent of the infirmary, feel the weakness in his limbs as the drugs kept him at their mercy, a parade of strangers helping themselves to his body in an endless fever dream. Two of those strangers were here today, and he wouldn't have been surprised if everyone in the room had fucked him already, during his stay.

Who were these people? 

They didn't look like a family unit, but they treated the space, and each other, with an ease that spoke of well-worn familiarity. 

Spread out on the couches, passed each other drinks and popcorn from the glass coffee table at gestured requests, bickered back and forth during lulls in the action, like they were used to sharing their lives and thoughts with each other.

And now, apparently, sharing Steve, passing him back and forth like a party favor. 

He considered resisting, but as with all things in his new sham of a life, it got easier as it went on, almost seemed normal. That was how he wound up bent over the coffee table, breath fogging up the glass, arms wrenched behind him, ass stuffed full of cock. The big man pounded into him from behind—lazy thrusts that tore the breath out of Steve with each splitting push—and casually chatted with the others while he did so.

"I do not understand," he grunted, releasing Steve arms to point at the screen. Steve grunted too, for a different reason, as the massive girth sank all the way in, and stayed there, impossibly large, impossibly filling. "Did the warrior not beat his opponent into submission? Why must he now quit the arena?"

Here, the man actually paused, dick still buried inside Steve's ass, to listen to the patient explanations and snark that were tossed at him. Then he asked a followup question, with every sign of having forgotten about Steve in favor of arcane football rulings. 

Pressed against the glass, Steve tried to shift, find a more comfortable position, and couldn't hold back a whimper. The enormous intrusion made it painful to move, even so much as _think_ of moving. But holding still was equally agonizing, the damn thing was tearing him apart just being inside him, showed no signs of leaving. 

When the room got into some kind of ruling debate, Steve couldn't take it anymore, and began to buck his hips backward, rocking himself against the intrusion, just to get it over with. Anything to get it out a little sooner.

The man was having none of it, and hit him on the back of the head, absently, like he might bang an electronic that wasn't working right. 

It was a casual swat that nevertheless sent Steve's head ringing. Stark's voice came distorted as he said something like, "Just keep watching, Thor. Take in the experience," and the others laughed, and Steve had no choice but to take in the experience too, held in place by the cock that impaled him.

Eventually a commercial break came on, and Thor began fucking him in earnest, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. It felt like being pummeled in a hailstorm, painful and fast, and ended with an explosive groan into the back of his neck, giant hands squeezing imprints into his hips until he was sure he was bruised to the bone.

When Thor tried to pull his cock out, Steve's body came right along with it. Thor had to press and peel him off like a condom, leaving him a trembling puddle on the rug. 

But not for long.

"On you go," Thor boomed, slapping Steve on the ass, hard enough to leave another mark. 

Steve pulled himself up onto weak limbs, and crawled the few feet over, head down, ass still dripping with Thor's come, an unpleasant trickle down each leg. On the other side of the couch, Nat was waiting. When he got close, she pulled up her skirt with a smile.

By the time he'd finished one go-around, he was ready to collapse, but Thor motioned readiness for round two, and Steve realized this torment was never going to end. His body was already aching from the abuse, and it didn't help that Thor picked him up like a toy and folded him in half, legs to chest, in order to manhandle him onto his waiting cock, already hard as a rock once more. Steve wasn't a small guy, but Thor held him easily in his muscular arms, pulling him up and slamming him back down, again, again, until the slapping sound, the dizzying up-and-down sensation, settled into a rhythm. Soon enough, Thor was jerking off with Steve's body, using it like nothing more than a human cocksleeve, while most of his attention was still on trying to understand the game. 

By the time Thor had finished with him a second time, he was in too much pain to move, so Thor just lifted him bodily and put him on Stark's lap, where he was quickly stuffed with a mouthful of cock, and soon semen. Passed around like this, reduced to just an object, a set of holes getting increasingly messy and sloppy, he started to lose track of how many times he'd been used. 

It was Clint's third or fourth time with him that he messed up. He didn't even understand how. 

Last time, he'd been throatfucked, a pillow pressed over the back of his head, holding him firmly down in Clint's lap. He expected more of the same, but as soon as he reached for the waiting penis, Clint slapped his hands away and said sharply, "Not like that."

From his discarded pants, Clint pulled his belt out of the loops with a swish. For a moment Steve thought he was going to be beaten with it. But Clint just pushed him down and bound his arms behind his back—which was going to make the rest of the evening a lot harder. One of the guys had been okay with just his hands, and now he didn't have even that. 

Steve looked over at the others, as if they would help him, or even take pity on him and untie him after Clint was through with him, but none of them looked his way, any more than they'd look at the bowl of popcorn they were snacking from. Clint was sitting a little ways off from the others, rather than sharing their couch space with them, aloof and distant. Steve had no way to get their attention, even if he could convince himself that was a good idea. 

"C'mere," Clint said, "on my lap," which would have been a whole lot easier if he'd just left Steve's arms free. 

Somehow, he managed to straddle Clint's legs, trying not to lean against the man any more than he had to. Rocking back on his heels, he slowly lowered himself onto the penis Clint held upright. A few weeks ago he had never imagined inserting anything into his ass. Now he was so loose from repeated fucking that he sank right down onto it, until his cheeks hit the top of Clint's thighs, and then Clint ground him down even further, with two hands on his shoulders, and a vicious look in his eye. 

As he began to raise and lower himself, thighs trembling with the effort before he'd barely even started, a commercial break came on. Stark got up—his turn for the refills—and Clint leaned back and checked something on his phone. Steve slowed to a stop, and received a smack for it. Biting back a snarl, Steve resumed his work, while Clint lazily swiped at his screen.

"Another sighting," Clint announced to the room. "Gone before they could even call us in. Must be feeling camera shy."

"These observances are becoming more frequent," Thor mused. "It saddens me to think what it might mean." He was putting his pants back on, and Steve had a moment of hope that it meant he wouldn't have to take that particular cock anymore. 

Not tonight, anyway.

"Faster," Clint said, and Steve strained to heave himself back upward. Were these the superhuman feats that the serum had been intended for? 

"It means they're fake." Stark reappeared with a fresh bowl of popcorn. "Otherwise, how come we've never caught a glimpse of him yet?"

"I don't think all these people could be colluding to make this up," said someone else. The hand-jobs man.

"You're so loose," Clint complained, as if it was Steve's fault, as if he'd chosen to be fucked by the whole room, or by Thor's improbably large dick. He grabbed Steve by the collar and yanked. Steve had to arch his spine unnaturally to avoid being choked, thrusting his chest into the air, and Clint took advantage to bite down on his nipple. Steve cried out brokenly as the teeth closed over his sensitive flesh, and he must have clenched down on the dick inside of him, because he could feel Clint's mouth shaping into a grin against his chest. 

"That's it. Keep these tits held out for me." Clint pulled back, and gave the abused nipple a sharp, stinging slap.

"Relax, kiddies," Stark put some popcorn in Clint's mouth as he passed. "It doesn't matter if it's really him they're seeing, or Yoda, or the damn tooth fairy. We have the scepter. He doesn't. Good guys win, yay."

And suddenly, Steve found himself listening with interest—not at the idea that these rapists were the good guys, but at the word "scepter", which for some reason caught his attention like a fish on a hook, when he'd managed to tune the conversation out most of the evening, focused on just surviving the treatment. 

"And we're sure it's secure here?" said Clint, even as he thrust up into Steve.

"Have you met the genius who designed these defenses? No one's getting in. Or out."

Instead of responding, Clint slapped Steve's erect dick, and Steve muffled his next cry. "Look at you, still so hard from this. You love this, don't you? Say it."

"Yes," Steve said tightly. "I love this."

"Perhaps some additional security wouldn't go amiss," the others continued.

"My brother is clever. Perhaps too clever for his own good. Reinforcing the defenses surrounding the scepter would only be wise."

"Ask where the scepter is kept."

"Where is it kept?" Steve said. 

All evening, he'd been mindlessly following orders, and this was only one more.

It wasn't until everyone stopped to stare at him that he felt his stomach drop. 

He should not have said that.

He should never have said that. 

Even Clint had stopped tormenting his nipple, stopped fucking into him from beneath.

The commercial break came to an end, but Stark only waved a hand, and the television muted itself. 

"What did you say?" he demanded, voice hard and dangerous, as he strode his way over. 

Steve stared at him, bewildered. "I—"

"Ahh," said the voice in his head, and he finally realized it wasn't anyone in the room who had given that order, but a figment of his broken mind. "There it is. Poor, simple Stark. Can't help but think of the location as soon as you're queried, can you?"

Dread pooled into Steve's stomach. He had no way to explain this, no way to fend off the punishment that was coming. What would he say, that some voice in his head had told him to, and he'd forgotten how not to obey every damn order that came his way?

To make matters worse, imaginary though it was, he still felt its presence disappear, somehow, leaving him to face the music alone.

"I... I thought I could offer some tactical advice," Steve stammered. "I used to... In the army..."

Stark slapped him across the face, but his expression seemed to settle, like Steve had done something naughty, but now within the realm of understanding. 

"No one," he pulled Steve off Clint with a yank, "wants advice," dropped him onto the floor, "from a fucktoy. Looks like you need another reminder."

Shaking too hard to pull himself to his knees, Steve only lay in a trembling heap, pulse hammering in his throat. He already knew his place, hadn't he already demonstrated it by submitting to this dehumanizing treatment, with hardly a protest? 

But when he finally dared look into Stark's face, he saw no mercy there, only cold anger, and Steve kept his mouth shut. 

Even when Clint pulled him back in close, long enough to finish jerking himself off, spilling his seed on Steve's chest and stomach.

Stark didn't give him a chance to rest his abused body. Just brought him back to his room and bent him over the bed, smearing come all over the mattress. Steve tried to get back up, but barely managed to get a look over his shoulder before familiar robot arms were pushing him back down, forcing his head and shoulders into the mattress. "No, please," Steve sobbed, struggling against the belt that bound his wrists, as a familiar intrusion pressed against his stretched and torn hole, and speared inside with a mechanical force. 

He sobbed in pain, begging incoherent even if it weren't muffled by the mattress. He couldn't go through another session with this thing, not after being raped all evening. But the door slammed behind him, and he knew Stark hadn't even bothered to stay to watch the punishment, just deposited him here like a misbehaving child and left him to the care of his robot. 

Wracked with pain, delirious, Steve had no concept of time passing. Just an eternity of agony, before the lights abruptly snapped off, and the assault ceased, mid-thrust. 

Steve lifted his head with a choking gasp, tears still streaming down his face. His legs were putty, and the robot in his ass was just about the only thing holding him up—but it also held him firmly in place, firmly impaled upon it, unable to move forward or back. 

Was this part of his punishment? 

If so, he would have expected Stark to gleefully explain from the ceiling what lesson this was designed to teach, but nothing came. Shattered, broken, for a moment Steve just laid the wrecked shell of his body back down on the mattress, prepared to docilely just waited for his torment to continue. 

But the longer nothing happened, the more he trembled, and he abruptly realized it wasn't fear, but fury. 

Fury at Stark, for being such a monster, who held people against their will, and treated them like objects, like a piece of meat. Who had just dumped him in here to be ravaged by his robot, and left, like he had better things to do than watch.

Fury at himself, for trying so desperately to appease his captor, only to end up right where he had been dreading all along. He'd given up so much, debased himself willingly, just so he'd never end up here again, but here he was anyway. 

He couldn't stay like this, and just wait for the fucking to start again. He had to try something. He'd end up no worse than he was already. 

It was torture as he began to work his way off the arm that held him in place, squirming this way and that, sending little jolts of pain and occasional bright shocks of pleasure up his spine with each movement. 

It was hard going with his hands bound, chest caught against the bed, but he managed to buck hard enough to shift the mattress, and then repeat the motion, earning himself a little breathing space. A third and final jerk was enough to slip himself free—but he had no strength left in his body, no hands to catch himself from the fall, and he struck the ground hard. His skull caught something on the way down, and the darkness of the room exploded briefly into brilliant white stars. 

When he finally managed to roll over, he curled up into a fetal position, weak and nauseous and terrified beyond words. Stark was going to catch him. Stark was going to punish him. Stark had something even worse waiting up his sleeve. Stark always did. 

But the minutes passed, and there was no shout of discovery, no reprimand from Jarvis. Was it possible that he wasn't watching, for once? Sleeping on the job? Had Steve finally received his first stroke of luck in this century?

Whatever it was, he wasn't waiting around to find out. 

He hobbled to his feet, the room spinning around him, and staggered his way to the door, all but slamming into it. Worked the doorknob behind his back with bound hands—Stark didn't even bother to lock it anymore—and then lurched out into the equally dark hallway.

Sliding his shoulder drunkenly along the wall for support, Steve stumbled his way along, and wondered distantly if there was a power outage. Those had been common back home, growing up, in a simpler, saner time. Maybe that was why he found the darkness familiar, almost soothing. If nothing else, it hid his nakedness, this body that he hardly recognized anymore, marked with handprints of all sizes, an assortment of nasty stains and welts and bruises telling nasty tales. 

Though, honestly, if anyone found him wandering around here, being seen in the nude would be the least of his problems.

He didn't know the floor well enough to have a conscious direction in mind, but he made it back into the lounge with the television. It was brighter than the hallway, lights from nearby buildings streaming faintly in through the window, so if it was an outage, it didn't affect the whole block. He could just dimly make out the left-behind mess of the couches and table, and stumbled towards them. 

The smell of come and sweat was still ripe and heady here, as he fell onto the rug where he'd so recently been raped, in all manner of positions. But there was also the glinting coffee table, with its sharp edge and corner, and if he leaned back against it and worked his bound wrists, he was sure he could saw through the cheap leather and get his hands free. 

It seemed to take forever, all the while his heart beating furiously in his chest, certain that he was going to be caught, that the lights would flood on at any moment, or his collar would choke or shock, and he'd wake up in whatever new hell Stark managed to dream up. 

Once he heard a noise somewhere down the hall, and the corner slipped, taking a gouge out of Steve's flesh. Warm wetness trickled down his arm, and Steve had to hold back a cry of pain. 

The belt had been cut enough that he managed to snap it apart, even in his weakened state, but there was no time to celebrate. 

He clamped a hand over the bleeding wound, stiff shoulders barely registering a protest against the millions of other aches in his body. 

He had to hurry. 

He tried a few rooms on his way down the next hall, and found another bedroom, this one with actual bedding. He knew it was a waste of time he didn't have, but he still stopped to strip the sheet from the bed, wrapping it around himself, grateful to be covered at last. As an afterthought, he bundled the pillowcase against the gash on his arm, where it bled through in an instant.

Feeling ever so slightly more sure on his feet, he felt his way down the hall, hoping to find stairs, an elevator, a damn fireman's pole, anything. 

It had already been long enough since he'd last walked on two feet that he felt strange and off-balance. 

The concussion didn't help. 

Occasionally, he felt like he lost time, or distance. 

After one of these missing gaps, he abruptly noticed that the pitch black of the hallway had eased into an eerie blue glow, and it seemed to becoming from the doorway in front of him. 

Stark's room

He noticed—but quite not soon enough to stop himself mid-stride, and stepped right in front of the open doorway, where he froze in horror. 

But Stark didn't leap out at him. He was lying asleep in bed, and on the far side of it stood a strange, tall man, holding a staff. 

No, Steve realized.

A scepter. 

The light was coming from a glowing blue orb on its end, and seemed to pulse to some unheard beat, bathing the room and occupants in its alien tint.

The man was wrapped in green and gold robes, and wore an elaborate two-pronged crown on his head, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked up to see Steve in the doorway, and his face split into a wide grin. Slowly, deliberately, he put a finger to his mouth, a shushing motion. Then he pointed down.

Steve's gaze followed helplessly, and saw that Stark lying in the bed wasn't asleep, as he'd thought, but frozen in place, eyes staring wide and horrified at the ceiling.

The figure swung the scepter up with a flourish, like a magician waving his wand. 

Met Steve's eyes over it. 

And jammed the base of it down, plunging it directly into Stark's chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used:  
> Day 26: Concussion  
> Day 27: Power Outage  
> Day 28: Accidents


	9. Debt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags for this final chapter, including a new character, relationship, and archive warning! Some more detail in the end notes.

Steve didn't stay to see more. He turned tail and ran, but the scene played out over and over in his head as he went. 

The grin. 

The alien blue glow. 

Stark's unnatural stillness, not even a twitch, a gasp, as the scepter was plunged through his torso, driven with a superhuman strength.

It was that strange immobility that got to Steve. The way the pain showed only in the widening of Stark's eyes, while the rest of him was locked in place. The way even his jaw stayed clenched rigidly shut, unable to let out a scream, that made Steve nearly leap to his defense. 

Fight off an aggressor who would stab a helpless, incapacitated victim. 

Defend the underdog, as he'd done his entire life.

Then he remembered who that so-called underdog was, and his thoughts short-circuited. He owed Stark nothing, except to get away from him, take back the life that had been stolen from him.

The life that was now very much in danger, Steve realized, as the stranger began to work his scepter back out, one hand fisted around it, the other bloodying itself bracing against Stark's chest.

There was nothing for it. Steve fled.

He was already running on fumes, aching, sweating, clutching the meager of his bedsheet around himself. Every hurried step sent a jolting ache throughout his body, his well-fucked ass, his bruised and cut limbs. He couldn't outrun a tortoise at this rate, but maybe he wouldn't need to. He was nothing, he was just a sex toy, an object. Whoever this man was—Stark's enemy, Stark's executioner—surely he wouldn't be bothered to chase after Steve.

But as he slammed into the corner in his haste to turn it, and then took way too long to gather himself and keep running, he heard behind him the distinct sound of pursuit. 

Heart racing, Steve forced himself on. He turned another corner, and realized that he was leaving a trail of blood, still dripping from the gash in his arm. But besides clutching his makeshift bandage tighter, there wasn't much he could do except hurry on. He wasn't familiar with the building, wasn't even familiar with moving on his own two legs anymore. Pain and dizziness threatened to send him crashing down at any moment, and his aching head could hardly keep straight which way was up besides, but he had to keep going.

Because...

Because...

Well, he wasn't even sure why.

If the staff-wielding menace caught him and killed him, stabbed him through the chest just like Stark, that would at least be an end to his misery, preferable to a lifetime as a slave.

But for a brief moment, seeing Stark lying there, like a storybook monster slain, Steve had felt a long-dead spark ignite within him—a brief but vivid dream of freedom, one that he wasn't ready to give up yet.

The elevator, when it appeared before him, came like a mirage. Two metal doors, an emergency exit sign, and a panel of buttons that Steve lunged for like salvation. But before he could reach it, a pane of ice came crackling up from the ground, sealing over the door and the panel like a pond freezing over on fast forward, right in front of his eyes. There was a sudden cold bite in the air, so abrupt he could taste it.

Steve's hand fell on ice instead, wet and freezing cold, and the sensation sent a jolt of true terror through him.

Because what it wasn't death that awaited him, should he fail to get away? 

What if it was only more of the same?

"You can't run from me," his pursuer hummed pleasantly, in response to his thoughts. He didn't even raise his voice. He didn't need to. 

The voice was inside his head. 

The so-called ice prince. The voice that had ridden in his head ever since he'd woken up from the frozen depths of the ocean. The voice that had put him to sleep in a bath of ice. 

The voice that was directly behind him now.

"So this is the creature that's so entranced my enemy and brother," he mused. "I must say, you look different from the outside."

Steve turned, and found himself cornered. The ice prince, stood not a few feet away, still grinning that too-wide grin, face lit red from the exit sign and blue from his scepter. He should have been covered in blood, but there wasn't a speck of it on him, not the point of the scepter, not the hand that had held Stark down, not the front of his robes, which should have been speckled with it. 

He set the point of the scepter on the ground and said, "Kneel."

Steve shook his head, and without warning, ice rose from the ground, with another great rippling crack. It swallowed his ankles, and when he tried to kick out against it, sent him careening forwards onto his knees after all. He caught the ground on the flat of his palms, and turned with an animal sort of desperation to pull at his feet, but they were encased in ice, so gut-wrenchingly cold on his bare skin, and it was crawling up his ankles, his knees, like a living thing. 

He remembered his punishment for running away from Stark: being put into the ice, brought back to that frozen hell, held there for an interminable age. Part of him had never left, because he still had nightmares about it, night after night. And now he had tried to flee the prince of ice himself, who could grow a sheet of it at will, who could trap him in it, who would put him under the ice for good. The thought drew a broken keen from his throat, and he scrabbled at his icy manacles with ever more desperation, gibbering and begging senselessly. 

To his surprise, the ice began to melt away, and Steve was able to pull away from it, scrape off the last shards with numbing fingers and, huddle there, cold and wet but free. He stared up at the figure, who was looking back at him with exasperation. 

"If you had only knelt to begin with—"

"I'm kneeling," Steve said hastily, hands clenching into fists. "Please don't— I'm kneeling."

"So you are. It's not my intention to panic you. Is this preferable?" The ice prince ran a hand over his face, and it was Stark's face that looked out when it had passed, bushy eyebrows, goatee, and all. The only things that stayed the same were the crown on Stark's head, and that wide grin, which looked manic and out of place on his face.

Steve cringed away from the vision. He'd thought he'd left Stark behind at last, but if even being stabbed through the chest didn't do it—

"No?" Stark's hand passed over his face again, and then it was Peggy standing there, still grinning luridly beneath her crown. There was even lipstick smeared on her bared teeth.

Steve let out a sob. "Please—"

"Even worse?" The hand again, and Peggy turned back into the stranger, with his high cheekbones and that strange glint in his eye. "It seems you're stuck with me after all."

He took another step closer, so that he could take Steve's his chin in icy cold hands, and tilt his face up. "You promised me. If I got you out of there, you'd do anything for me, anything at all. Don't you remember?"

As he spoke, he reached for the collar around Steve's neck, and broke it off with ease. 

The metal collar that had choked and shocked him, that he'd clutched at hundreds of times, trying to find an inch of give, a single scrap of mercy, crumbled to bits at a single touch. 

Face still held firmly fixed, Steve couldn't look down, but he felt the raw skin of his neck with disbelieving hands. 

"Don't you remember?" the other man repeated, in a voice that demanded an answer.

"Yes," Steve admitted. He'd made that promise to his own imagination, thinking he was about to die. He'd never thought the voice could have been real, could have actually come for him—nor that it could even represent a more horrifying fate than Stark. 

But as an hand parted the sheet he held clutched over himself, traced down his ribs, scraping through the hair on his chest, the chilling touch sent fresh horror pouring through him. Stark at least had been flesh and blood. His new captor seemed made of ice, could command it at will. The prurient interest the man took in Steve's body, skating over his pecs, rubbing his nipples until they each pebbled up in turn, left Steve with no illusions about what he was after. If he didn't get away, he was going to be fucked by a being made of ice. 

And if he did try to escape— 

And if he failed again—

The man set down his scepter with a clink, and grabbed Steve's hand, spread his unresistant fingers, to show the tattoo that read, "Property of A.E.S." 

"Property of, hmm?" he said, and Steve looked away in shame. 

The ice prince flicked his pinky over the end, and more letters appeared his digit, so that it read, "Property of AESIR." 

If he was waiting for a reaction, Steve had none to give; he didn't have a clue what that meant.

"I kid," the man said, after a beat, "I kid. You're all mine." He swiped it all out with his thumb, and this time the line of text was replaced with a single word, written in strange and angular runes. 

Somehow, Steve found that he could read it. 

Loki. 

A name, plain and final, a statement in itself.

"Will you keep your promise?" 

When his hand was released, Steve clutched it to himself, and couldn't answer around the nausea. 

"I won't freeze you." Loki's fingers landed on Steve's head, and seemed to lift the thoughts from it. When he tried to flinch away, the fingers tightened, and held him still. "My end of the bargain was to get you out of the ice, not put you back in. Will you keep yours?"

Instead of hurting him, the cool touch seemed to soothe the pain in his head. The ringing in his head went away, and the nausea with it, almost like Steve's concussion had been healed.

Slowly, Steve nodded. Loki had taken away every mark of Stark's ownership, maybe even killed the man himself, only to replace it with a mark of his own. Going from one captor to another was the last thing that Steve wanted. But instead of pushing the man of away, instead of trying to get up and run, he only said meekly, "I'll do whatever you want. As I promised."

That grin came back to Loki's face, chilling and cruel. "Good."

Loki tugged the sheet the rest of the way off his shoulders, letting it pool on the ground where Steve knelt. Raked his eyes over newly exposed flesh, taking in all the marks of use, handprints impressed into his flesh, come dried on his skin. 

Steve waited for the order to turn over, present his other end, but instead Loki went for his gashed arm, still bleeding sluggishly, and ran his cool palm over that too. The leaking blood slowed, and then stopped entirely. Before his eyes, the flesh began to knit together, until it was unblemished and whole.

"Am I dreaming?" Steve wondered. 

He'd also seen Stark do incredible, inexplicable things with a wave of his hand—but this was his own flesh that was being mended before his eyes. It felt less futuristic than simply magic.

"Aren't you mortals always dreaming?" said Loki.

" _Us_ mortals?" said Steve, teetering on the verge of hysteria. 

"I'm closer to what you would call a god."

The self-proclaimed god drew aside his robes, to present his cock for worship. It was long, and slender, and slightly curved. Steve had been a prisoner long enough to know what was expected of him now. Without having to be told, or forced, he took it into his mouth, and went down on it until it gagged him, bobbing his head over it, choking down more of it with each pull, until it drew tears to his eyes. 

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he waited to be corrected with a blow, if this wasn't what Loki had wanted. 

"Use your mouth," Loki said, "not your throat."

Steve didn't imagine for a moment that it was for his own comfort, but he was grateful nonetheless. Eased up, dragging blessed air in through his nose, and began to suck on the head instead, letting the taste of it flood his mouth. It wasn't cold like he'd expected, but burning hot, heavy on his tongue. When he lapped at it, running his tongue underneath the ridge, the hand tightened again, and he flinched. 

But there was no correction, and when he looked up it was to see Loki's head thrown back in pleasure, eyes shut, grin dimmed to a blissful smile. Steve repeated the motion with more force, and Loki let out a low, guttural moan, one that sent a wave of heat flushing through Steve's entire body. 

It shouldn't turn him on like this. 

Maybe he'd been warped from his time with Stark, but somehow the sound went straight to his own dick. Something about the idea of doing this to Loki with his mouth. That such a powerful being, maybe even a god, was being unraveled by his lips, his tongue, made Steve suck harder, greedily milking the cock for its spend. 

Involuntarily, his hand fumbled for his lap, and began to jerk off his own stiff penis, finding a dry friction that felt so, so good. He was sure he could come from this, just from sucking off this stranger whose intentions he didn't even know, and he had no idea what that said about him, except that maybe Stark was right about him, or he'd been broken to pieces until he fit the mold—

"Did I say you could do that?" Loki's voice cut through his thoughts.

Steve froze. The blood turned to ice in his veins, but he didn't think it was Loki's magic doing it. 

"Give me your hand," Loki said, in a tone that booked no room for resistance. Steve released Loki's penis with a wet sound, and released his own with a trembling hand, that he placed reluctantly into Loki's, open palm facing up ward. 

Loki pulled the hand up to his lips, gave it a solid lick, and then spat into it. "You may come this time," he decided, "as long as it's with my name on your lips." 

And he released the hand.

When Steve made no move, Loki said, "Continue," and Steve did so. 

His erection had all but wilted from fear, but it sprang up again quickly with his touch, luxuriating in the wonderful hot slickness of his palm. 

Loki took himself in hand as well, rubbing his penis all over Steve's face between jerks, covering him with spit and precome and the scent of him. His cockhead appeared in short bursts through his fingers, and Steve wanted it, salivated for it. He kissed the rocking knuckles instead, and then the balls swinging beneath, suckling greedily until he felt them tighten. 

Somehow, he knew what Loki wanted without needing the command. Leaned back, and let Loki come all over his face, painting him with spunk, ropes and ropes of it, marking every inch of him. 

It was too much. From the first touch, Steve was spilling into his own fist. Remembering the command at the last moment, he parted his lips, meaning to shout Loki's name, but instead what came out was, "Master," and he knew that it was too late for him, he'd never be free again.

As he came down from his orgasm, the shame began to set in. He was kneeling naked in the halls of his last kidnapper, and coming willingly for his next. Still marked with Stark's use, he was now covered in Loki's spend. He couldn't have looked or felt more disgusting. He tried to lower his head, but Loki's fingers caught him by the chin again, forced him to look up. 

"We will have a great deal of fun together," Loki said, waving a hand over Steve's face.

A flash of some strange light flickered in Loki's eyes, and Steve felt his face began to tingle. The come seeped into his skin, an indelible mark that he knew he'd never be able to wash off. 

"What will you do with me?" said Steve in despair.

"Whatever I want," Loki said easily, picking up his scepter from the ground, twirling it in his hand. "That's what you promised me, isn't it?"

Shivering, Steve pulled the sheet back over himself, wiping his sticky hand on a corner of it, his face with another. 

"But first, let me show you what's become of your former master." 

When Loki walked off, Steve daringly got onto his own feet as well. He'd been ordered to kneel, forced when it hadn't been quickly enough, but he'd never been told to stay knelt. He half expected to be knocked back down to his hands and knees, but Loki just shot him a sardonic smirk over his shoulder, and continued to lead the way, lighting up the halls with the cool, blue glow of his scepter, until the two of them came back to Stark's room, and stood in its doorway.

It was just as they had left it; even Stark was just as they had left him, still lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He hadn't moved an inch, not an arm, not a tilt of his head, but the blood seeping from his chest had spread into his bedding, giving him a bloody cape. 

When he heard them approach, his eyes swiveled to look at them, as far as they could go without being able to turn his neck. Steve remembered being that helplessly, and felt an unfamiliar dark emotion kindling in his chest.

"We can help him, pet," said Loki, idly stroking Steve's hair, though he had to reach up to do so. "Ask me this boon, and I will grant it."

Steve recalled how easily Loki had healed his injuries, and rubbed his own forearm, where the gash had left no trace. 

They had the power to heal Stark's chest wound, too. Leave him alive, to regret his defeat. All Steve had to do was say the word.

Stark was staring into his eyes, a wordless entreaty in his gaze. Whatever held him still didn't allow anything more.

Steve broke the gaze first. He leaned into Loki's touch, and turned away from the pathetic figure on the bed. 

"No need," he said. "Someone told me that in this day and age, we pay our debts."

And as Loki led him out, he could feel Stark's helpless stare burning into his back the whole way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over! I honestly didn't think I'd make it through all the prompts, or keep to my posting schedule, but I also wasn't expecting such an incredible response—thank you! 
> 
> Prompts used:  
> Day 28 (again): Hunting Season  
> Day 29: I think I need a doctor  
> Day 30: Ignoring an Injury  
> Day 31: Left for Dead
> 
> Note about Major Character Death archive warning: In this chapter, Tony is "left for dead", so I added the warning to be safe. It tickled me that, after writing 30+ whump prompts for poor Steve, I managed to get Tony with the last one :D 


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